Skip to main content

Full text of "The Strand Magazine: An Illustrated Monthly"

See other formats







Tie strand magazine 

Digitized by GoOgl* 

Original from 


by Google 









C^f\r\n\i' Original from 




CriT\Ci\^ Original from 



Original from 





An Illustrated Monthly 

Edited by 


Vol. XXXVI. 


Xon&on : 



C*_ —,,!.. Original from 

lOOyk 1 



AFRICAN JOURNEY, MY. (See " My African Journey." ) 

ARCHIBALD, THE UNDOING OF. A Composite Novelette by Fifty Popular Novelists... 
Illustrations from Photographs. 




Illustrations by Nell Tenison. 


Illustrations from Photographs. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorp. 


Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. 


Illustrations by John E. SutclifTe. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Photographs, Sketches, and Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

...£. V. Lucas. 211 


E. H. Aitken. 411 

C. C. Andrews. 656 

... W. Da/ton. 650 


John J. Ward. 667 

CHILD BEAUTY. The Ideals of Representative Lady Artists . 
Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations from Photographs. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorp. 


Illustrations by Lawson Wood. 


Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Written and Illustrated by Harry Furniss. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by John E. Sutcliffe. 



Arthur Morrison. 269 

A. T. Quitter- Couch ("Q"). 4*7 
276, 460. 545> 765 

1 16, 236, 356, 476, 596, 796 

... Maarten Maartens. 22 
H. C. Bailey. 201 



Illustrations by Warwick Goble. 

EVERGREENS The Hon. Mrs. Fitzroy Stewart. 537 

Illustrations from Photographs, Pain ings, and Prints. Ornamental borders by G. Thorp. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations by Lawson Wood. 


Illustrations by Arthur Garratt. 


Illustrations by A. D. McCormick, R.I. 


Illustrations by W. S. Stacey. 


Illustrations by Warwick Goble. 


Illustrations by J. E. Sutcliffe. 


Illustrations by A. J. Gough. 
HARE, SIR JOHN. (See " Reminiscences and Reflections." ) 

Illustrations by W. K. Haselden and from a Photograph. 

HOUSE OF ARDEN, THE. A Story for Children .UN VEBSITfc3fcttKHI&f f I428 f 348, 4^. 5 8 6 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar 

.A. Dry*dale-Davies. 87 

Arthur Morrison. 771 

Fred M. White. 450 

Morley Roberts. 382 

Morgan Robertson. 33 

Beckles Wilhon. 635 

Richard Marsh. 433 

.. Edward Price Bell. 528 

•Original from 



Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Arthur Watts. 



W. H. Richards, ioo 
... E. Bland. 286 


Illustrations by A. J. Gough. 

E. Phi/lip Oppenheim. 185 


Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations by G. L. Stampa. 

Horace Anncsley VachelL 642 
F. Frankfort Moore. 303 

LAST CRY, THE ... ... " 

Illustrations by C Fleming Williams. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations by Chas. J. Crombie. 


Illustrations by J. Finnemore, R.I. 


Illustrations by Chas. J. Crombie. 


Illustrations by A. E. Jackion. 

MULTUM IN PARVO. A Compendium of Short Articles. 

I.— "That Reminds Me" 

II.— Every Man's Musical Instrument. The 

HI.— Wouldn't It Be Funny If 

IV.— Some Queer Champions 

V.— "Drapery Figures" 

Illustrations from Photographs and Sketches. 


V. — The Kingdom of Uganda 

VI.— Kampala 

VII.— " On Safari" 

VIIL— Murchison Falls 

IX.— Hippo Camp 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

Olivia Rry. 573 

W. H Richards. 100 

A. Drysdale-Davies. 87 

Morley Roberts. 7 1 6 

Keble Howard. 337 

G. A. Riddeli and Bernard Darwin. 146 
E. Phillips Oppenheim. 483 


F. Gilbert Smith. 

... James Scott. 

Aubrey Gentry. 
Walter Goodman. 

Hon. Winston Spencer Churchill, M P. 





Illustrations from Photographs. 

John/. Ward 215 

Alfred Whitman. 
... R. Ramsay. 

PATTI, ADELINA. (See " Reminiscences, My." ) 


Illustrations from a Painting and Sketches. 


Illustrations by A. S. Boyd. 


Lloyd Grorge, M.P 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations from Paintings by the Hon. John Collier, Hans Holbein, T. C. Gotch, J. B. Burgess, R.A., 
Miss Jessie MacGregor, W. L. Windus*, \\. P. Frith, R.A., and W. b\ Yeamcs, R.A. 


Illustrations from Photographs, Sketches, and Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 




Henry E. Dudeney. 779 


Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott and from Sketches, Photographs. Facsimiles, arnl a fatolinj;. 


Illustrations from Paintings. Photographs, and Facsimiles 





Illustrations by G. L. Stamp*. 


Illustrations by J. It Skelton. 


Illustrations from Drawings, Sketches, and from a Photograph. 


Illustrations by Arthur Gamut. 


...CD. Lis/ti. 365 
Richard Marsh. 753 


...Frank Savi.'e. 552 

SALTHAVEN. A Serial Story 

Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by the Author and from Photographs. 


The Singular Experience ok Mr. John Scott Eccles 

The Tuier of San Pedro 

The Adventure of the Bruce-Parti ngton Plans ... 

Illustrations by Arthur Twidle. 


Illustrations by Arthur Twidle. 


Illustrations by S. H. Sime, Max Beerbohm, and from a Photograph. 


I. — The Veteran. II. — An Excellent Tip. HI.— Rules of the Game. 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 

SNAPSHOT, A Ellen Thonteyct oft Fowler. 743 

Illustrations by C H. Taffs. 

SPY-GLASS, THE. A Story for Children E. Nesbit. 788 

IV. IV. Jacobs. 57, 175, ^9, 402 

George D. Abraham. 442 

Arthur Co nan Doyle. 



... 689 

Arthur Conan Doyle. 123 

E. S. Valentine. 394 

IV. Pert Ridge. 513 


A) thur A/orr ison. 1 29 

^A5b, in&. A Story toi 
Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations from Photographs. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorp. 


Illustrations by Tom Browne, R.I. 

STORIES STRANGE AND TRUE. V.— The Monster of " Partridge Creek." Georges Dn/my. 73 

Illustrations by M. Loevy and from Photographs. 

SUFFRAGETTE, THE Frank Savile. 3 

Illustrations by A. D. McCormick. 

SURPRISE VISIT, A F. Frankfort Moore. 499 

Illustrations by S. Spurrier. 


Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. 


Illustrations by H. E. Dudeney. 


Illustrations by Spencer Pryse. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

E. H. A Men. 566 

... Hewy E. Dudeney. 581 

E. Bland. 729 


UNDOING OF ARCHIBALD, THE. A Composite Novelette by Fifty Popular Novelists ... 
Illustrations from Photographs. 



Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by £. S. Hodgson. 

WHITE PROPHET, THE. Chapters I.— XII. ... 

Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by H. Lanos. 


Illustrations by C. H. Taffs. 

C. C. Andrews. 153 

Max Pcmberton. 91 

Hall Caine. 603 

John J. Ward. 215 

Camille Flamtnarion. 294 

y-y.Be//. 259 

ilized by GoOgk 


Original from 



("""rw^nL'' Original from 



[See fiigv io.) 


Original from 



JULY, 1908. 

No. 211. 

The Suffragette. 


HE Suffragette stood on the 
balcony of the hotel and 
looked down at the glories of 
Lakeland and said that it was 
quite too beautiful for words. 
The Mere Man beside her 
cordially agreed, but then he was looking at 
the Suffragette. Her cheeks were flushed, 
her eyes sparkled, the sunlight was finding 
out the very best places to start gold-mining 
in her hair. He had seen her look animated 
before, but then that was only the results of 
talking, of which she did a good deal 

The Mere Man did not take so much 
interest in her opinions as in herself. This 
was weak of him, because the Suffragette 
revelled in argument and did not like having 
her theories perpetually deferred to. Oppo- 
sition was the breath of her nostrils, and she 
wanted to hear the Mere Man disagree with 
her, if it were but only once. 

At this particular moment, however, she 
forgot her ideals and enjoyed the landscape. 
After a fortnight's rain it was a cloudless day. 
The Suffragette drew a long breath of satis- 

" What's the mountain exactly opposite ?" 
she inquired. "The one with the great 
spire of rock sticking out of it on the right ? " 

"That's Eastdale Pyramid," said the Mere 
Man. "The spire is the famous Eastdale 

" I shall make Miss Jenner come with me „ 
and climb that," announced the Suffragette. 
" It looks quite interesting." 

" The Pyramid or the Pinnacle ? " inquired 
the Mere Man. She answered that of course 
she meant the Pinnacle. 

" The Pyramid is only a walk? she added, 

The Mere Man gave a little cough. 

VoL xx*vi-1. 

" I should very much like to take you up 
the Pinnacle," he said, " but it has only been 
climbed once." 

" Take me ! " she repeated, and looked at 
the Mere Man as if he were of the very 
lowliest type of beetle. " Miss Jenner and I 
can take ourselves, thank you ! " 

The Mere Man smiled a trifle nervously. 

" I'm very much afraid " he began. 

She hastened to interrupt him. 

" Do you think we can'H" she demanded, 
aggressively. " If a man has climbed it— 
and I suppose it was a man — I feel it my 
duty to demonstrate to you that a woman 
can do likewise. I claim equality for the 
sexes — in everything." 

" But really " 

" I may as well tell you, Mr. Marchmont," 
she announced, with crushing impressive- 
ness, "that I have been in Switzerland. I 
have been up the Jungfrau and the Breit- 
horn. I don't think we are likely to find a 
little English rock much of a difficulty after 

" There is such a difference," explained 
Marchmont, patiently. " Of course, I don't 
doubt your abilities at all, but such — such 
experience is necessary for these peaks." 

" Well," she allowed, graciously, " whatever 
experience we want we must buy. At 
present I only ask for one piece of informa- 
tion. Shall we require a rope ? " 

In spite of himself Marchmont smiled. 
He thought of the Devil's Elbow, which had 
to be traversed for fifteen yards by practically 
hand-hold alone — he had a swift mental 
vision of Broken Gully and its surrounding 
slabs — he remembered, with twinges in every 
limb, the difficulties of the Great Chimney. 
But with an effort he attuned his face tQ 




" It would be entirely impossible without 
a rope f " he said, gently, and the Suffragette 

" I'll borrow one from the porter/* she said, 

"You must at least allow me the privilege 
of lending you one," he urged, and the 
Suffragette, with offhand graciousness, was 
pleased to accept She even unbent a few 
moments later, as he brought the eighty-foot 
coil and hung it upon her shoulder. 

M I dare say there, will be time for another 
walk when we get down/' she suggested* 
11 Perhaps you'll show me another climb after 
lunch, Mr, Marchmont? This morning 

Miss Jenner and I 
have determined to 
conquer the Pin- 
nacle entirely by 

Miss Jenner 
nodded vigorously* 
She was a lady of 
massive build and 
determined coun- 

"Entirely by 
ourselves," she 
echoed, and, with- 
out further com- 
ment, led the way 
down the path 
which pointed the 
way towards the 
Pyramid and Us 
famous pillar of 

As the two ladies 
disappeared a man 
strolled out through 
the French win- 
dows of a near-by 
room, contentedly 
puffing at a very 
large pipe, 

44 Why aren't you 
dancing attend- 
ance, my boy?" he 
asked. " I'm quite 
contented to be 
deserted by now — 
these weeks of rain 
have quite inured 
me to it- Don't 
let any false 
notions of friend 
ship stand between 
you and your 
heart's desire," 
Marchmont stared back, a little sheepishly. 
" My escort has been declined," he 

The other laughed. 

u Hence this hangdog air," he chuckled 
" Well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody 
good* What about having a try at that new 
route up the north face of Evale Head which 
we talked of?" 

Marchmont hesitated. 
" I wonder if you*d mind if we — didn't?" 
he said, at last 

" Just as you like. Shall we have another 
go at the Pinnacle ? I've a sort of idea 
there's a way we cVdat quite explore——" 



Marchmont interrupted with a gesture and 
a rueful grin. 

" The Pinnacle's booked ! " he announced. 

His friend's eyes opened in wonder. 

" No-o-o ! " he cried, in amazement. " I 
didn't think there were six other men in 
Great Britain fit and willing for the job. By 
Jove ! Td like to see them at it." 

" So would I — from a certain distance," 
agreed Marchmont. " But I dare not be 
seen watching. These aren't men. They 
are Miss Campbell and Miss Jenner." 

If the other had been amazed before, this 
time he was stupefied. His eyes grew round 
— he gasped — finally he dropped upon a 
chair and shouted in the throes of poignant 
mirth. He rocked himself to and fro. 

" You, John Marchmont, the acknowledged 
top-line man of the Climbers' Club, have 
actually allowed two ignorant women to go 
and — and — scrabble at the foot of Eastdale 
Pinnacle without warning them of what they 
were up against ? " 

Marchmont made a comical gesture of 

" My dear Childers," he said, "you haven't 
been privileged to hear as much of their 
opinions as I have. Opposition would only 
have goaded them to further effort. But I 
think it would be only — only humane to 
watch them and make sure that they come 
to no harm." 

Childers grinned again. 

" I quite understand your deplorable case," 
he said. " Not content with what you see of 
Miss Campbell at close quarters you must eye 
her adoringly from afar. Let us take glasses 
and climb to a suitable niche on the Cow's 
Mouth. We shall be within half a mile of the 
Pinnacle, and can see without being seen." 

Armed with binoculars, the two friends 
strolled out to gain their watch-tower unseen. 

Meanwhile, in Broken Gully, the two ladies 
were finding matters rather beyond the scope 
of their Swiss experiences. To be led up 
the more or less uneventful footholds of the 
snow-slopes on the easier Alps by experienced 
guides is in no way comparable to finding a 
way up perpendicular crags in Lakeland on 
your own initiative. Miss Jenner was eyeing 
the ascent above her with much distaste. 

41 This must be a mistake, my dear," she 
decided. " No one but a goat or a cat could 
surmount these precipices." 

Her companion shook her head ruefully. 

" No," she said. " The other side posi- 
tively overhangs. It's here or nowhere." 

She examined the prospect carefully. For 
^bout a hundred feet above her head the 

gully narrowed gradually into a neck, from 
which a sheer face of rock sprang up un- 
broken by any terrace. It terminated far up 
the Pinnacle under an overhanging cliff which 
apparently put an absolute stop on all farther 
progress. But her eye travelled on to note 
that a tiny series of ledges ran horizontally 
across a huge buttress and ended under a 
dark slit in the stone. 

She was looking, if she had known it, at 
the famous " Marchmont " traverse, so called 
after her friend of the hotel, the first climber 
of the Pinnacle, while the shadowed groove 
above it was the equally famous Great 
Chimney, which led, by sensational develop- 
ments, to the slope immediately below the 
summit. Outside it, guarding its depths of 
gloom like a giant sentry, was a huge natural 
pillar which had been detached from the 
parent rock by stress of centuries of ice and 
storm. It was this last which caught Miss 
Jenner's eye. 

" That great obelisk doesn't look any too 
safe to me" she remarked. " What's to 
prevent a gust of wind toppling it over?" 

Miss Campbell laughed. 

11 1 expect as it's lived through all the 
winter storms it isn't likely to be upset by a 
June breeze," she answered. " Anyway, the 
first thing is to get up to the head of this 

They did it slowly, with many pants and 
protests from Miss Jenner, who was hoisted 
from foothold to foothold by her companion's 
restless energy alone. But at the end of an 
hour's work they found themselves confront- 
ing the cliff face with — on Miss Jenner's part, 
at any rate — frank incredulity that any human 
foot had won a way up it. 

" My dear Lilias," she declared, " we have 
taken two hours to reach what is apparently 
the mere beginning of this adventure. Lunch 
is at one. It is now half-past eleven. These 
facts speak for themselves. Let us imme- 
diately make our way home again." 

But youth would be served. 

" On no account," cried the optimist. 
" Nothing would induce me to meet Mr. 
Childers or Mr. Marchmont under a cloud 
of defeat. I begin, too, to see my way. 
Here and there, if you look carefully, there 
are crevices. I shall tie the rope round my 
waist. When I have got up to that tiny 
platform, about sixty feet above us, I will 
knot some loops, let them down to you, and 
you will join me easily." 

She reached up as she spoke, and caught 
at a crevice. She found foothold and moved 

on ?jNW?lTf()racRi§ b ^ Her head 


was good and her eye for grips instinctive. 
Rapidly she worked her way from hold to 
hold, and within ten minutes was able to 
look down upon her friend from the vantage 
she had mentioned. 

But neither persuasions nor threats would 
induce Miss Jenner to brave further perils. 

" Come down, my dear," she urged. " I 
am getting exceedingly hungry." 

" If lunch is dearer to you than your self- 
respect, pray go and eat it," said Miss 
Campbell, rather tartly. "/ am going to 
carry out my intention." 

Miss Jenner groaned and sat down. It 
was suddenly borne in upon her that she was 
as unable to descend from her present 
position without her companion's help as she 
had been to reach it. She watched Lilias's 
progress with resentful eyes. 

The girl was divesting herself of the rope 
and tying it to a handy spike of rock. Then, 
with a little ironic wave of her hand to the 
watcher below, she left her position of safety 
and climbed out upon the crags. 

As Miss Jenner watched, her cheeks went 
whiter and whiter and her breath came in 
little gasps, for there was no doubt that 
Lilias was taking risks — risks which might 
have meant little to an expert, but which for 
a tyro at every step involved something like 
a nodding acquaintance with Death. 

The girl seemed possessed by a sort of 
demon of recklessness. She swung from 
ledge to ledge with quick, lithe movements 
which took Chance for her ally rather than 
for a possible enemy. The tiniest hand-hold 
sufficed her. She wormed her slim fingers 
into crevices which the clumsier hands of a 
man would have found impenetrable. She 
poised her shoes on ledges which to the hob- 
nails of a professional climber would have 
refused the slightest support. Creeping, 
swinging at times by hand-hold alone, 
balanced, as it seemed, on a single foot, she 
crept from hold to hold, her eyes ever strain- 
ing upwards, her whole brain intent on 
ascending, without a thought for what lay 
below. At last, with hands which bled from 
more than one cut, she gripped and swung 
herself upon the last ledge below the over- 
hanging cornice of stone 

She looked down. 

As she did so a sudden spasm of fear 
gripped her. Her lips went dry — a sort of 
huskiness caught at her throat. 

Had she really scaled that crag which fell 
away sheer from her feet to the broken slabs 
below ? Where could she have found foot- 
hold ? Where, in Heaven's name, was she 

going to find it for her descent? For a 
moment she tottered on the edge of panic. 

And then the sound of a voice reached 
her — a voice which banished panic and left 
in its place defiance. Two figures were 
hastening up the Gully, and were nearly at 
Miss Jenner's side. It was Marchmont who 
hailed her. 

" Miss Campbell ! Miss Campbell ! For 
goodness' sake remain where you are till we 
join you ! " 

She stared down the couple of hundred 
feet which separated them. Then she gave 
a queer little laugh. 

" Why ? " she demanded, curtly. 

" Because what you are attempting is sheer 
madness. Eastdale Pinnacle is impossible 
for a single climber without a rope. We 
have proved it — Childers and I." 

" Oh, you have proved it ? " 

She laughed again. 

" Then I am going to prove the contrary, 
Mr. Marchmont. But don't let me make 
you late for lunch. I'll tell you all about it 
later. Au revoir I " 

She waved her hand and turned to the 
ledges again. Her heart throbbed mightily 
in her breast, her fingers trembled a little. 
There was a queer singing in her ears, but 
she paid no attention to further shouts from 
below. Fiercely she told herself that she 
would not be dictated to — that if harm befell 
her it would lie at the door of Marchmont's 
interference. She would go on ! 

Marchmont groaned. He saw that this 
matter was going to make a breach between 
him and the object of his adoration, but he 
saw also very plainly where his duty lay. 
Without further argument he and Childers 
sprang at the cliff. 

Miss Jenner protested loudly. Miss 
Campbell was in no need of their assist- 
ance, she declared, while she herself was. 
She demanded to be conducted down. 

They hesitated. Then Childers, with a 
half-glance at his friend, suddenly turned 
and offered her his support. Marchmont 
returned the glance gratefully and swung on 
up the ledges, while Miss Jenner was care- 
fully piloted into safety. 

By the time Childers had escorted his 
charge into the valley both the climbers were 
out of sight. They had passed round the 
Elbow, traversing below the overhanging 
cornice to gain the Chimney. 

Childers hastened in pursuit. He left 
Miss Jenner exasperatedly conscious that the 
prospect of lunch was becoming more and 
more a fleeting one. Bat her conscience was 


um i 


too much for even 

the pangs of 

hunger, She could 

not leave u n- 

assured of her 

friend's safety. 
How Li 1 ias 

Campbell passed 

from ledge to ledge 

across that awful 

fifty feet of crag 

neither she nor 

those who are more 

competent to judge 

will ever know* 

She herself is of 

the opinion that 

pure rage both 

goaded and guided 

her — rage at the 

prospect of a defeat 

which had now 

become a certainty. 

For her powers 

were failing — she 

could feel that in 

every fibre of her 

being. For the 

moment the stimu^ 

lation of pursuit 

and wrath carried 

her through peril 

after peril, but her 

physical force was 

being spent. 

As she crawled 

on to the last ledge 

and crept into the 

shadow of the 
Great Chimney 
she knew herself 
beaten- The beat- 
ing of her heart 

deafened her. And then, close by as 
it seemed, she heard an exclamation of 
relief Not thirty yards away March 
mom was hauling himself over the edge 
of the Elbow, and had given voice to his 
thankfulness at seeing her, She got un- 
steadily upon her feet — she did not look 
down— that was beyond her now \ but she 
stared up the great groove in the cliff above 
her. Automatically, as it were, she searched 
for and found a grip and swung herself up 
wearily a couple of feet. 

His voice came to her again in anguished 
protest. She set her lips and paid it no 
attention. She reached for another hand- 
hold, found it, and rose a further yard* 



Suddenly she realized that a series of tiny 
ledges, almost like steps, ran up the guarding 
pinnacle of rock in front of the Chimney. 

The great pillar stood so close and so 
parallel to the cliff that its topmast point 
nearly touched it. It came upon her almost 
as an inspiration to leave the Chimney and 
trust herself to the Pinnacle. A crevice was 
in the rock within reach of its summit Here, 
after gaining forty or fifty feet by scaling that 
convenient stair, she could swing herself back 
into the rift again. 

No sooner thought of than done. She 
stepped firmly on to the lowest ledge. 

Was it her fancy — did it stir under her 



She hesitated, persuaded herself that her 
imagination alone had frightened her, and 
scrambled lightly from ledge to ledge* 
And then, loudly, almost shriekingly, came 
Marchmonfs warning, 

" Get back ! " he yelled. " For Heaven's 
sake get back on to the rock ! " 

There was something arresting in the 
agony of his cry* She half halted, looked 
down, and saw what she knew no imagina- 
tion could figure, The great stone was 
rocking on its pedestal ! 

She gave a cry and reached back instinc- 
tively towards the cliff. She heard a grinding 
noise and at the same time saw March mont 


ALOtiB, 1 

haul himself with almost superhuman effort 
off the ledges below into the narrows of the 
rift, And the grinding noise grew louder. 
Her feet slipped from off the unsteady hold 
upon the stone. 

She shrieked again and gripped a tiny 
ledge. Foothold was gone ; strive desperately 
as she would her weight hung from her hands 

And then, with a thunderous roar, the huge 
obelisk toppled from its base and fell over, 
smashing down upon the cliff the whole of its 
hundreds of tons of solid stone, passing across 
the face of it as a plane passes over a plank, 
wiping out every ledge and crevice in the 
destroying impact of its fall ! 
As it reached the slabs below 
it burst as a bomb -shell 
bursts, its flying fragments 
whizzing out into space as 
shrapnel flies from the shell 
The thunders of its passing 
were tossed from hill to hill 
by a hundred mocking 

The blackness of night 
fell over Lilias's eyes. She 
clung savagely, desperately 
to her hold, but life, for her 
— e\ery heat of her heart 
hammered the knowledge 
into her ears — must be 
ended, A few moments 
more of desperate clinging 
—time to breathe a prayer 
—time to fling back one 
wild longing for the life 
which was slipping from her 
with each second's passing, 
and then the end. Her 
cramped fingers would relax, 
and she would fall down, 
down, down— into eternity! 
A tiny sob escaped her — a 
sob which merged in a cry 
of startled wonder and 
incredulous relief. 

For a hand had grasped 
her ankle and was support- 
ing it. Gently but firmly 
her foot was moved, pressed 
into a crevice, and then re- 
linquished. The agonizing 
pressure on her hands ceased. 
She opened her eyes, 
March mont was clinging to 
the outer edge of the 
Chimney at her side. 

Thurc was none of the 



deferential admirer about him now. His 
grey eyes were hard with determination, his 
lips grim and set Even his voice, when it 
came, was filled with tones of mastery — of 

" Grip my shoulder with one hand — so ! " 
he ordered, and she meekly did as she was 
told. " Now put your other arm about my 
neck — so ! " he continued, and she obeyed. 

He took her hands in one of his and drew 
them together across his chest He shook 
his shoulders with a sort of tentative motion, 
as if to settle her weight upon them. 

" Hold tight ! " he cried, warningly, and 
then drew a deep breath. His hand shot 
out to and caught a projecting point within 
the great rift. His foot moved into a crevice. 
He hung for a moment in his newly-gained 
position, again took breath, and then seemed 
almost to leap into the shadowed hollow of 
the Chimney. There was a shock as he 
landed, and a wild, breath-catching moment 
as he fought to get his balance. Then his 
arm slipped back between his body and hers 
and gripped her waist 

She opened her eyes. She was held tightly 
to him, and they were standing on the smooth 
surface of a boulder which had fallen into 
the narrows of the Chimney and become 
wedged. Below them was emptiness ! Above 
them a smoothed wall ! Not a ledge, not a 
cranny remained ! The great pillar had 
planed every hand-hold and foot-hold away 
in its fall. 

For a minute she did not speak. She 
clung to him, panting, conscious in her close- 
ness of the great pulses which effort had set 
astir in his body, for he was panting, too — 
the great gasps of a strong man overtaxed. 
Suddenly, overpoweringly, she realized what 
she had done— what her reckless pride was 
responsible for. And realization wrung from 
her a cry of self-reproach. 

"What can I say — what can I say?" she 

She felt a throb pass through him. It 
seemed as if he held her tighter still. She 
looked searching into his eyes, and they 
answered hers with a smile. 

"Things might be so much worse— so very 
much," he said, gently. " I might be below 
and you here — alone ! " 

" No ! " she cried. "No! I wish I had 
been killed- as I deserve to be." 

Again she felt his grip tighten about her 
and the quickening of his breath. But his 
voice was level and unfaltering as before. 

" Lilias," he said, quietly, and a strange 
feeling thrilled her at this sudden intimate 

Vol. xxx vi— 2. 

use of the name, "we have not very long 
here — you and I. You have seen that, have 
you not ? The way of escape is gone. Can 
you face that — bravely ?" 

In spite of herself she gave a little shudder. 
Then, suddenly, she looked up at him, and 
this time without a quiver of her lips. 

" I can face it," she answered. " Yes — I 
can face it — with you I " 

His hand went up in a quick, caressing 
gesture to touch her hair. His face bent to 

"And if it had not been for this?" he 
asked, anxiously. " If we had gone back to 
safety —to life ? " 

She gave a strange, choking litttle laugh. 

"I should never have held out against 
you," she whispered. "It was the very 
knowledge of your power to make me love 
you that drove me to — to try to defy you." 

Tenderly he bent and kissed her. 

" My darling ! " he murmured, passionately. 
" My darling ! " 

There was no reserve in the completeness 
of her surrender. She offered the answer of 
her lips willingly to his. And then, as if 
calling upon some new-found source of 
strength, she turned and looked down. 

Up through two hundred feet of void 
Death itself stared back from the cruel rocks 
below. But there was no flinching in her 
glance ; her voice was firm. 

"And it will be— when?" she asked her 
lover, quietly. 

"As God wills," he answered, gravely. 
"A couple of hours— perhaps three — and 
my strength must fail. And so the end, 
dearest — the end together." 

And then a strange quiet fell between 
them — that merciful dulling of sensation 
which some unprobed whim of Nature seems 
to offer to those against whom she has poised 
her sword. They spoke, indeed, but at long 
intervals and in queer, half uttered phrases, 
as if, in their nearness to each other and to 
death, thought passed without the fully 
spoken word. One hour —two hours went by. 
Horror was over, apathy had come. 

Suddenly, as if some invisible agency had 
muttered in his ear, Marchmont strung him- 
self to attention. What had moved -what 
had clattered by his cheek ? 

A pebble? Yes, a pebble. There came 
another and another. Something stirred 
above them — something was rapping against 
the rocks — something was sliding into 

Something:? Aye r a rope ! 

Marchmont rubbed his eyes. It came 




from above, this thing. . How was that 
possible — how ? 

And then the explanation rushed into his 
mind. Childers ! Was there another way 
up the Pinnacle ? Had not his friend always 
vowed, even that very morning, that they 
had not sufficiently explored the north front ? 
So here was proof of his argument — proof 
beyond a doubt. But he would not be 
able to triumph over his comrade. No. 
Marchmont smiled a grim little smile. Why ? 
Because, though it dangled a tantalizing six 
feet away, the rope was out of reach. The 
cornice above them overhung ! 

A little breeze sighed up from the south. 
The rope blew gently inwards. It swayed 
up to within a couple of feet of them, and 
swung back. To and fro it was tossed, and 
with it hope and fear rose and fell as the 
man and the woman saw it play, as it were, 
with their very lives. They panted ; they 
stretched their hands painfully into space. 
And each time their fingers reached — 
nothing. A hundred times they tempted 
Fate and Fate eluded them. 

Then, with a sudden gesture which seemed 
to imply a finality of decision, Marchmont 
drew back. Gently but firmly he took Lilias 
by the shoulders and altered her position till 
she stood behind him. 

She looked up at him wonderingly, and 
with a dawning sense of fear. 

11 What is it ? " she asked. " What are you 
going to do ? " 

He bent ; he kissed her again and again. 

" I'm going to trust in God," he said, 
solemnly. " I'm going to jump ! " She 
gave a cry of protest. 

" No ! " she sobbed. " I couldn't bear it 
if you missed ! I couldn't bear to meet the 
end alone ! " 

Steadily but unhesitatingly he pushed her- 
back. The light of resolve burned in his 
eyes — he poised himself for the effort. 

She cried out again. She flung out her 
arms, and then — she slipped ! In a flash the 
effort of his purpose to leap was changed into 
the still more urgent desire to save her. One 
of his hands snatched at the rock — the other 
at her shoulder. 

He only half gripped it. His fingers slid 
from it, passed her elbow, and locked about 
her wrist. She hung from him outwards, 
overhanging the void to the full extent of 
both of their arms ! 

And then, as if some well regulated 

machinery timed it, the breeze swung up 
the rope— swung it up into the fingers of her 
other hand — fingers which had been seeking 
a vain support in the empty air ! He drew 
her back still clutching it — drew her back to 
life itself — to all that life and love could 

An hour later a small group stood at the 
foot of the Gully. Miss Jenner was holding 
what might almost be termed a court of 

" I scarcely know which to blame most," 
she decided, wrathfully. "You, Lilias, for 
your insane recklessness, or you, Mr. 
Marchmont, for promoting such an expedi- 
tion without explaining its risks ! " 

Marchmont shrugged his shoulders. There 
had already been much explanation which 
had left the indignant lady entirely un- 

" I didn't expect her to attempt the climb 
— seriously," he said. 

" Seriously ! " Miss Jennets voice was 
shrill with anger. "All I know is that her 
conduct was serious enough to keep me six 
hours without lunch ! " 

The three looked at one another — Lilias, 
Marchmont, Childers. The knowledge of 
what the last hours had held for all three — 
the perils — the ever-present spectre of tragedy 
—the supreme efforts by which safety had 
been won— all recurred to them with poignant 
force in the face of this anti-climax. Miss 
Jenner had lost her lunch ! 

In spite of themselves they smiled. The 
smile became a titter — broadened into 
a laugh. For a full minute they shook half 
hysterically. Miss Jenner did not share 
their mirth. 

" I see no joke ! " she informed them, dis- 

Marchmont pulled himself together. He 
made a little deprecatory gesture. 

" Nor I," he answered, humbly. " But I 
can promise you this, Miss Jenner — I'll never 
let Lilias do it again." 

Miss Jenner's contempt became a sort of 

" You — won't — let— her ! " she thundered. 

With a comical air of resignation and 
surrender Lilias laid her hand upon her 
lover's arm. 

" Do you know, dear," she said, smiling 
into the face of her indignant friend, " I'm 
almost afraid he won't/ 1 ' 

by Google 

Original from 


V first substantial success at the 
)ld Court Theatre was "New 
Men and Old Acres,'' by Torn 
Taylor and A. W, Dubourg,and 
] produced on December 2nd, 
1876. The leading parts were 

admirably portrayed by Miss Ellen Terry and 

her then future husband, 

Charles Kelly* I played 

the small part of Mr, Vava- 
sour, an old country squire. 

A somewhat funny incident 

occurred daring the run of 

this play. In those days 

I was always accompanied 

by a favourite and beautiful 

old collie called JJmut, 

which I took to rehearsals. 

It followed me everywhere 

— even on to the stage, 

and Tom Taylor begged 

that I would let it accom 

pany me during the actual 

performance of the play. 

I demurred at first, having 

an objection to animals on 

the stage, but eventually 

gave way to the author's 

wishes, Night after night 

Smut performed his part 

in an admirable and irre- 
proachable manner, lying 

down at my feet while 1 

sat under a tree taking 

part in a duologue with 

one of the characters. 

On a hot, sultry night in 

July, however (for the play 

enjoyed an exceptionally 

long run), Smut became 

bored, thinking, no doubt, 

that the play had had its 

day, and that it was now « HB 

the dog's turn* He advanced quite quietly 
to the centre of the stage with, an almost 
managerial sense of his own importance, sat 
down in a dignified manner on his haunches, 
and yawned in full view of the audience with 
the sublime indifference of a dramatic critic. 
The audience were naturally amused, and. 





encouraged by the success of his unconscious 
efforts, Smut went from bad to worse by 
snapping up a passing fly, which he swallowed 
with the enjoyment of a gourmet, inevitably 
spoiling the quiet scene on which we were 

This terminated his engagement as an 
actor (he didn't even get a fortnight's notice), 
though he soon succeeded in finding other 
employment as a model for Lord Leigh ton, 
the famous painter, who wrote me on his 
behalf as follows ; — 

MY Dbar Hariv,— Will ycm da me a great favour? 
I want you very much to lend me for an hour (per 
bearer) your beautiful dog Smut, I have Uj make a 
pencil sketch of a dog fur a design I have in hand, 
and it ought to lie done now— this forenoon, Willi 
many anticipated thanks, — Yours sincerely, 



About this time I 
received the following 
characteristic letter from 
Charles Mathews, which 
I have culled haphazard 
from my collection : — 
November ist, 1877. 

My Dear Hark, — A 
young "gentleman," whose 
name is Corners Fletcher 
Norton (age eighteen), wis tics 
to *■ walk," If yuu can give 
him a short innings on your 
course, do. lie is not a 
Gale, of course, hut vvhu 
knows what he may accom- 
plish with a little practice on 
your ground ? 

faithfully yours, 

C- J- Mathews. 

(Gale was the famous 
'* walker" of bis time.) 

Rapidly I pass over 
"The House of Darn- 
ley,' 1 and "Victims" by 
Tom Taylor, the latter being the only disastrous 
failure I suffered at the Court. I now come 
to my most important production, and one, 
perhaps, which gave me more interest and 
pleasure than any other during tbe whole 
course of my career, as so much responsibility 

M R tt + 

Ftvih ff Photo. 

devolved upon me in bringing it before the 
public, I had suggested to W. G- Wills, a 
Bohemian of indisputable genius, that he 
should write me a version of u The Vicar of 
Wakefield," He jumped at the idea, and a 
few months after informed me that the 
play was finished. The manuscript — if I 
can so call it — was the most extraordinary 
thing of its kind I have seen. It was almost 
illegible, and many of the scenes were written 
on backs of envelopes, pieces of blotting- 
paper, and portions of old letters. I remem- 
ber reading several pages and then arriving 
at an obvious hiatus, which I pointed out 
to Wills, who replied, in a thick Irish 
accent: u IVe got it, dear boy, in my 
pocket, or, perhaps, on my shirt cuff, JJ and 
he would then produce a suspicious-looking 
fragment scintillating with literary gems and 
poetic thought, though the play in its original 
condition was chaotic in the extreme. It 
was altogether incoherent and impossible in 
its first state — a mere embryo of what after- 
wards appeared when we got it into shape. 
Wills and I sat up night after night recon^ 
structing the piece, and if I suggested a new 
scene or alteration to which he was agree- 
able he would reply, '* I accept that, dear 
boy.* 1 He then proceeded to make a note 
on that useful shirt 
cuff, underneath which 
slumbered the sleeves of 
three jerseys struggling 
to make their appear 
ance, and perhaps 
jealous of their owner's 
partiality for that 
once white shirt. 
Eventually Wills wanted 
to sell me his work for 
two hundred pounds, as 
he was always hard up , 
but one could not take 
advantage of that in 
genuous, big -sou led 
Irishman, and I refused, 
preferring to give him 
something in advance ol 
nightly royalties. 

Surprise has been 
often expressed that I 
biBUiottitFrv did not appear as the 

Vicar of Wakefield in 
my original production of * J Olivia/' and, 
indeed, it was a great temptation, and required 
the exercise of considerable self-denial on my 
part to refrain from doing so, I decided, 
however — and in looking back feel sure 1 was 
right— to dCTtwrjaiTO^frtfrtieart and soul to the 














stage-management of this beautiful play- So 
enthralled was I with the theme that I 
thought out every detail of " business," every 
movement of the characters, with the result 
that at the first rehearsal the play was per- 
fectly cut and dried. The production was 
notable not only for the author's success, but 
for the great achievements of Miss Ellen 
Terry and William Terriss. The latter made 
his first really great mark in London on 
that occasion, I received many letters from 
him, of which the following is one 1 — 

Royal Add phi l heat re t 

Septcmljer 23rd, 1887, 
My DfiAK Hare,- — Vour very kind letter has given 
me l be greatest pleasure. It is scarcely necessary for 
me to remind you that it w/as to ynur a I tie guidance 
l bat I am indebted for my first ideas in the art of 
acting* and t although still conscious of my faults* I 
cannot help feeling proud to read such kind 
and flattering words as you have thought fit to 
pen me. I hope to keep your letter as a mark 
of your esteem, which I a&sure you I value 
more than that of any living actor. Commend me 
to Mrs* Hare, and believe me always sincerely yours, 

Wjli. TBRRIS5. 

I cannot sufficiently express my sense of 
obligation to my old friend Marcus Stone, 
who took the most enthusiastic interest in 
my production of " Olivia." . I consulted 
him on many points, and he generously 

furnished me with the 
designs for the cos 
turner mi Olivia J caps 
and kerchiefs soon 
became the craze- 

A not her dear friend, 
now, alas ! no more — 
I refer to Arthur Sulli- 
van — whose delightful 
work will keep his 
name and memory 
green long after his 
charming personality 
is forgotten, most 
generously o fife red to 
compose all the music 
for that memorable 
production. How 
characteristic and in- 
spired that music was 
and how beautifully it 
harmonized with the 
r spirit of Oliver Gold 
smith, who, it has been 
said, " wrote with the 
pen of an angel/ 1 must 
remain a treasured 
memory to those who 
had the opportunity 
of seeing u Olivia," 
I might here briefly enlarge upon the pre- 
eminent importance of proper stage manage- 
ment I have always held that the greatest 
care should be exercised in dealing with 
individuals rather than groups, getting out of 
actors the best that is in them, " suiting the 
action to the word/' and developing the idio- 
syncrasies and latent capabilities of the actors 
themselves. I think it is folly to train, upon 
the set views of others* artistes who show any 
capacity for producing good original work. 

The finest stage -man age ment is often un- 
noticed by the audience and critics* Its very 
perfection causes it to be accepted as a 
natural result which passes without corn- 
men t — like a well-dressed woman, whose 
appearance should not dazzle the eye, but 
please it. Nothing should be overempha- 
sized or exaggeratedj so that it is only when 
your attention is drawn to some effect of the 
stage management that you notice its exist- 
ence, Many plays have been ruined through 
bad stage- manage ment in the handling of 
duologues. Too much attention is paid to 
the mise en scine^ which should only form an 
unobtrusive background , but one which is in 
perfect taste* The authors work and the 
actor's interpretation of it should form the 



When my acting days 
are over I hope still 
to have opportuni- 
ties of being in touch 
with the art I love so 
much — through the 
medium of stage- 
management and pro- 

"Olivia 11 marked my 
last notable production 
at the old Court Theatre, 
and my tenancy soon 
after came to an end in 
July, 1879, 

I now found myself 
face to face with a 
great problem, I had 
no wish to abandon 
theatrical management, 
which profoundly 
interested me, but I was 
fully conscious of the 
fact that an enterprise* 
which lacked the aid 
of a strong leading 
actress was as unstable 
as a house built on 
sand. As I desired a 
permanent rather than 
a fleeting association, 
I made a proposition 
to Mr. W. H, Kendal 
that he should join me 
in the management of 


WORN l,V M[-- ELLEN i I |, 1 V IN 

1 Op V| a/' 

the St j aniens Theatre, 
on the understanding 
that his wife should 
support our association 
throughout. Arrange- 
ments were completed, 
and then commenced 
a management which 
lasted from October, 
1879, till July, 1888, 
It was a period which 
passed without a cloud 
or misunderstanding 
between us. Our 
arrangement was that 
Mr, Kendal should 
undertake the business 
side of the partnership, 
and that the conduct 
and management of the 
stage should be left 
under my entire con- 
trol. And so control- 
ling, I remained an 
autocrat, Mrs. Kendal 
herself setting the lead 
by the most implicit 
loyalty. I was always 
inclined to be critical, 
and remember her once 
saying to me at re- 
hearsal, "For Heaven's 
sake, Hare, what's the 
matter with me? You've 
never said anything ! " 

from Phato. bf Window «* ff raw. 

_ i«s-_Aku mk+ w. h, KiwDAu Original from 



I should like to acknowledge here how 
greatly the success of our management was 
due to the many magnificent performances 
Mrs. Kendal gave of the parts she under- 
took. She and Lady Bancroft were the most 
remarkable first-night actresses with whom I 
have ever been associated, They seemed 
to give performances which were absolutely 
inspired on the first nights. Mrs. Kendal, 
who sometimes perhaps showed a slight ten- 
dency to over elaborate a character during 
a long run, at the start seemed to obey 
every canon of dramatic art. I shall 
never forget her wonderful performance as 
Antoinette Riga ad in the play of that name. 
She was stricken down with a severe illness 
during the early part of rehearsals, and we 
thought we should be compelled to postpone 
the production of the play. However, with 
the courage which always characterized the 
lady, directly she was sufficiently convales- 
cent we were allowed to go and rehearse in 
her room* She did not even come upon 
or see the stage 
until the night of 
the £>remtire $ when 
she gave a per- 
formance I have 
never seen ex- 
celled in power 
and perfection of 
technique. Her 
humuur, too, was 
another unfailing 
ch*a rac teri s t i c, a nd , 
like most great 
artistes, Mrs. Ken- 
dal possessed it 
to a very marked 
degree. She was 
also very sensitive 
and susceptible to 
11 the comic side 
of things." 

Once, I re- 
member, when we 
were playing "The 
Lady of Lyons," 
I, as Colonel 
Dam as, was in- 
clined to make 
fun of some of 
ideas and high- 
falutin' senti- 
ment of that play, 
and sometimes 
indulged in a 
little humorous 

aside or by-play while she was striking an 
heroic attitude, Mrs, Kendal said to me on 
one of these occasions : " Hare, if you make 
me see the comic side of this play, I shall 
never be able to play the part again ! " 

It would be tiresome to my readers if I 
were to give a chronological list of all the plays 
produced, but it is impossible to take leave of 
the St. James's Theatre without alluding to 
the opportunity and pleasure we enjoyed of 
producing Pinero's first full-blown play, u The 
Money Spinner." It was a comparatively 
short play, being only in two acts and one 
scene, but it achieved an instantaneous suc- 
cess, and afforded the first conspicuous and 
brilliant indication of the eminence to which 
the author was later destined to attain. 

I am, and always have been, a sceptic in 
what is called the inspiration of the moment 
in acting, although I know there are many 
who differ from me on this subject. Still, 
there are exceptions to every rule, and unre- 
hearsed effects have often proved extremely 

successful, as I 
have reason to 
remember on the 
production ot 
Pinero's play, in 
which I appeared 
as the bibulous 
ne'er - do - well. 
Baron Croodle, 
The piece had 
been rehearsed 
carefully from 
every point of 
view ; but, on the 
first night, when I 
was left alone on 
the stage as that 
disreputable but 
amusing old 
scoundrel, the 
following un- 
rehearsed incident 
occurred, The 
family were sup 
posed to have 
retired to lunch, 
and I was sitting 
discoiisolat e ly 
meditating over 
my evil, if 
imaginary, past. 
There came the 
sound of a 
champagne cork 
drawn in the 
next roo } at 




which I pricked up my ears, and, quite 

uninientionally till that moment, my face lit 

up with the delightful recollections which 

that well-known sound inspired, The house 

roared with laughter, and it is perhaps 

unnecessary to say 

that this unrehearsed 

effect was m variably 

repeated, while it never 

failed to elicit an 

additional burst of 

merriment throughout 

the run of Pinero's 

witty play. 

This reminds me 
of a more curious 
occurrence which hap- 
pened to my favourite, 
Regnier, when he was 
rehearsing the part of 
Noel in " La Joie fait 
Peur" at the Comedie 
Franqaise, and it may 
be remembered by 
those who know the 
play, Noel was the 
old butler to a 
widowed lady who 
mourned the loss of 
her only son, sup- 
posed to be drowned 
at sea. After a short 
scene, in which Noel 
has been comforting 
the widow and her 
daughter, he is left 
alone on the stage and 

indulges in that much-abused device, a soli- 
loquy, which gives so many natural oppor- 
tunities of conveying the inner workings of a 
character to an audience, (Why a man 
should not speak to himself in preference to 
somebody else if he wants to, even on the 
stage, I could never understand*) Well, to 
return to Noel; soliloquizing, he says that he 
for one does not believe in the death of his 
beloved young master, and that he feels sure 
one day he will hear htm re-entering the room 
as he did when a boy t saying, " Noel, [ 
am starving : give me something to eat ! " At 
thai moment the door opens, and the young 
midshipman appears unseen by Noel. He 
closes the door behind him and says, "Noel, 
I am starving ; give me something to eat." 
The " business " arranged and rehearsed was 
that Noel, throwing up his arms in an 
hyMeriral burst of emotion, rushes forward 
and I"; ills upon his master's neck. On the 
first light, however, Regnier lost his foot- 

SKKTCH BY Mft. W, H, KftltfDAU 

hold in turning, and failed to reach Delaunay, 
who was playing the boy, and fell prostrate 
at the latter s feet. This unrehearsed effect 
was electrical, and the house ruse at Regnier* 
Needless to say t this inspired accident was 

retained ever after- 
wards, and always 
with the same extra- 
ordinary result. 

It was during our 
management of the 
St. James's that I first 
had the honour of 
meeting the late Lord 
Tennyson, and my 
brief association with 
the great poet left an 
eve r las I i ng imp res si on 
upon my memory, 
Accompanied by Mr, 
Kendal, I went— on 
the Poet Laureate's in- 
vitation to his house 
at Haslemere to hear 
a little one-act play 
he had written, called 
"The Falcon/ 1 
founded on a story by 
Boccaccio, It may be 
imagined with what 
veneration we entered 
the residence of that 
great man, After 
lunch, which was 
almost unbroken by 
conversation, we went 

into his study, and I 
still seem to see and hear him, puffing away 
at his pipe, which he replenished every now 
and then from the jar of tobacco placed 
conveniently at his side. 

His manner was rugged — M frosty, but 
kindly." I wished to say what I thought 
about the piece, which he read with great 
deliberation, but dared not. The play was 
much too long for so slight and delicate a 
subject, but at the close I felt it my duty to 
tell him that, in its present form, its success 
was doubtful. I was impelled to do this, 
tor, though delighted with the prospective 
honour of producing his play t in doing so I 
did not wish to produce anything which 
might be considered unworthy of his genius. 
When I had summoned up courage to 
tell him as respectfully as possible what I 
ventured to think, he became exceedingly 
indignant, and the matter was evidently at 
an end. We were not pressed to stay, and 



walking down the garden we heard footsteps 
behind us, and, turning round, found it was 
Tennyson, who said somewhat abruptly as he 
put the roll of manuscript into my hand, 
"Cut what you like, but, for God's sake, 
never let me see it ! >r 

The play was soon afterwards put into 
rehearsal, and I took very great pains to 
make the production worthy of the famous 

Mr + Marcus Stone again most generously 
made sketches for the dresses, and Mr. 
Burgess, R.A., the distinguished architect 
and authority on medieval subjects, designed 
the scene. Mr. and 
Mrs. Kendal, Mr, 
Denny, and Mrs. Gas- 
ton Murray played the 
four characters, while I 
contented myself with 
the stage-management 
When the play was 
ready for production I 
wrote to Mr, Hallam 
Tennyson (now Lord 
Tennyson) asking if his 
father could be present 
on the first night- He 
replied that his father 
never went to first 
nights, but would like 
to see a rehearsal of 
the play. This was an 
ordeal which neither 
those concerned in the 
acting of the play nor 
I can ever forget. 

It was a bitterly cold 
day in December when 
Tennyson, accom- 
panied by his son, drove 

up to the front of the theatre and joined me 
in the stalls. He still seemed a little frosty, 
and did not thaw during the performance. We 
three formed the audience. I had arranged 
screens f rugs, and every available appliance 
to protect Tennyson from any draughts. The 
curtain rose, and, though the actors were 
almost petrified with nervousness, the play 
was acted — and admirably acted— in cold 
blood. The orchestra was there, and the 
lighting of the scene and other details were 
attended to precisely as on a first night 
Tennyson sat like a sphinx throughout the 
performance, without making any remark, 
and at the conclusion of the perform- 
ance rose silently from his seat, followed 
anxiously by myself, and entered his car- 
riage without a word. As his son was 

a boat to join him he (Mr* Hallam 
Tennyson) turned round to me and 
said, with that kindly regard for other 
people's feelings which has always charac- 
terized him, "Mr, Hare, my father is 
delighted!** I must say I was greatly 
amused by this assurance, for by what means 
of thought-transmission he had gauged his 
fathers delight, and what Tennyson really 
thought of the performance, remains a 
mystery, sc far as I am concerned, to the 
present day. The play was, however, re- 
ceived with the greatest respect and cor- 
diality by the Press, and gave unfeigned 
delight to the discrimi- 
nating and educated 

The following are 
letters I received from 
Helen Faucit (Lady 
Martin) and George du 
Maurier with reference 
to this interesting pro- 
duction :— 

31, Onslow Square, 3.W., 
December iQlh, 1&79- 
Dkak Mt. Hark, - 
What an exquisite pi cm re 
yoQ put before us last 
night ! Everything in har- 
mony— poetry, acting cos- 
tumes, scenery* The latter 
real, even to the glimpses 
of the sky six" ihnmgh 
1 he timbers of the roof of 
the .sweet old Italian cot- 
tage, and so idtai ! Nothing 
obtrusive, all in just and 
due suhservience to the 
story and 1 he living charac- 
ters representing it* It was 
indeed a lovely picture, and 
one to live in the mind and 
be grateful for, 
I trust Mr. Tennyson, will himself see his dainty, 
charming poem thus beautifully illustrated, I con- 
gratulate you and all concerned in giving 10 the world 
this perfect gem of poetry and art + 

Thanking you most heartily for my enjoyment, and 
wishing you all the success you most justly deserve, 
believe me very truly yours,, 

Helen Faucit Martin- 

New Grove House, Hampstead. 

My. DKAR HARE,— Very many thanks f^r u nmst 
pleasant evening, Tennyson's play is to me delight* 
ful, and I could not seethe climax +s for my tears/* 
T disgraced myself. 

[ cannot tell you how much I like your Colonel 
Daunt— almost better than any part I have seen you 
in, . . ♦ 

I took Trixie instead of the missus, who was ;i little 
seedy. With our united k^nd regards U> yourself and 
Mrs. Hare,— V ours sincerely, 




P.S.— I low splendid Mrs. Kendal looked in Monna 
Giovanna ! Oh, that I were a painter instead of a 
humble draughtsman on wood ! Or that I had the 
voice of her husband to sing to her ! Please tell them 
so, with my love and best wishes, and a merry 
Christmas to all of you. 

Second T.S.— I feel I could not sacrifice Chang*, 
even for Mrs. Kendal. You needn't tell her this. 

blamed by my friends for not playing another 
part— namely, that of William III. — in a very 
successful revival we enjoyed of Tom Taylor's 
" Clancarty," and some surprise was expressed 
in the Press at my not doing so. I, however, 
preferred to allot the part to Mr. Mackintosh, 
and his performance must be remembered 

^LtA^J"c^-tVvJ^ t» y**^jL<<*/ Cl^J Aa^ S/-*^ 

- ^ 

Oa^D a- Que**-, J~*u*, & <^< */ yvu . 



"The Squire," by Pinero, next attracted 
great attention, and I was so struck by the 
author's wonderful gifts in reading hi§ play, 
and in particular the part of Gunnion, 
in which he revealed powers rich with 
humour and full of character, that I tried 
hard to persuade him to play the part, and 
offered him any terms he liked to name, but 
in vain. I am confident that, had Pinero 
chosen to continue his career as an actor, 
he would now occupy a premier position, 
though we could ill afford to have lost any of 
the works of art which have emanated from 
his pen. 

Mr. and Mrs. Kendal again distinguished 
themselves in "The Squire," and the character 
of Gunnion was eventually entrusted to that 
fine actor, Mr. William Mackintosh, who was 
admirable in the part. Speaking of Mr. 
Mackintosh reminds me that I was much 

* Editorial Note. — This refers to the killing of " The 
Falcon " — a favourite bird — for food, and Du Mauri-r'~ 
unreadiness to dispose of his dog foi the same purpose. 

with delight by all playgoers who have seen 
it. In answer to a call I received at the fall 
of the curtain I alluded to the strictures made, 
and held that my justification was found in 
the fine performance the audience had seen. 

In the early days of 1885 we gave an 
elaborate production of " As You Likq It," 
which was a fair though not a great financial 
success. In this I essayed my second 
Shakespearean . part (my first having been 
Dr. Pinch in "The Comedy of Errors "in 
the stock company at Liverpool). Mr. and 
Mrs. Kendal played Orlando and Rosalind, 
and I played Touchstone — a part to which I 
was quite unsuited and in which I failed to 
make any success. Whatever chances I might 
have had were marred on the first night by 
my extreme anxiety with regard to the pro- 
duction, my mind being preoccupied with the 
scenic and lighting effects, the limes and the 
properties (not to speak of the supers), rather 
than with the philosophy of Shakespeare and 

the flfflrtfet^F^fCnlSAlf Tyuchstone - 



This again emphasizes the moral I have 
already pointed out — that a manager who 
has to superintend the cares of the stage 
should not play an important part. He 
cannot do both; and the ideal manager is 
one who can act, but does not. Under any 
circumstances, however, I should not have 
succeeded as Touchstone, 

Other plays produced during our manage- 
ment were "Impulse," "The Ironmaster," 
and " May fair," the last two plays being 
adapted for us from ihe French by Mr. 
Pinero, who was also responsible for "The 
Hobby Horse/ 1 an original and very clever 
play, which added to his growing reputation. 

Another of the 
greatest successes 
we enjoyed was 
a revival of **A 
Scrap of Paper/' 
The idea of re- 
viving this play 
originated from 
my early recollec- 
tions of appear- 
ing in it when at 
G i g g 1 e s w i e k 
School, to which 
I referred in my 
opening chapter. 
I had other 
memories of its 
performance by 
Mr. and Mrs. 
Alfred Wigan at 
the St* James's 
Theatre in the 
early 'sixties. I 
was much struck 
at that time by 
the brilliance of 
this comedy, 
which r however, 
was not a 
success, owing PAC5iMILK OF *«=«« 

to Mrs. Alfred 

Wigan — an admirable act 1 ess when her part 
suited her — not being adopted to this 
character Immediately Mrs, Kendal joined 
me, however, I felt sure that the part was 
one in which she was bound to make a very 
great success. My expectations were fully 

I played the part of Dr. Penguin, an old 
entomologist. In the last act I was supposed 
to be intoxicated, and Kendal, as Colonel 
Blake, had to interrogate me as to the where- 
abouts of the missing "scrap of paper." I 
answered him as I was supposed to do, in an 

inarticulate and semi-drunken manner, and 
Kendal used to score off me by replying in 
the same confused way, mimicking my 
apparent drunkenness and making me a butt 
for his humour. One night, however, after 
he had done this, and when the roar uf 
laughter had subsided, 1 startled him by 
saying, as I pulled myself together in a very 
dignified way: H You are drunk, str! 1 ' 
Kendal was flabbergasted, but good-naturedly 
agreed to the retention of this unrehearsed 
effect, which always seemed to amuse the 
audience very much. 

Another practical joke 1 perpetrated, which 
was not perhaps generally noticed, occurred 

on the last night 
of "Still Wateis 
Run Deep," As 
old Potter I had 
to say to Mild 
may (Kendal; 
just before the 
close of the play, 
" Ah ! my dear 
John, you musi 
remember there 
is an old proverb 
which says, "All 
that glitters is 
not gold '! J ' He 
replied in the 
words of the text 
to the effect that 
there was a no 1 her 
old proverb even 
more applicable 
— namely, "Still 
waters run deep," 
which was said 
with an elaborate 
bow to the audi- 
ence as the 
curtain was rung 
down. On the 
last night, how- 
ever, I could not 
resist stealing his proverb and putting it in the 
place of my own, and, as he did not retaliate 
by availing himself of the rather tame 
ending that "All that glitters is not gold/' 
the curtain was rung down on my un- 
expected and untimely reminder that "Still 
waters run deep ! '' 

In June, 1888, this long and successful 
union came to an amicable end, It was a 
very pleasant partnership throughout, and we 
went our ways with good wishes mutually 
for each other's future welfare. During this 

IV -.!<■■• W, 11. KfcMDAI- 



I can say, without egotism, we did much 
useful work for the stage— a service which 
was only cut short by our difficulty in finding 
suitable plays to produce. 

Among the members of the company we 
had the pleasure of enrolling under our joint 
banner were such well-known names as the 
following, some of whom appeared on the 
stage with us for the first time, while many 
have since achieved fresh and solid dis- 
tinction. They include Mr. Allan Aynes- 
worth and Mr. Brandon Thomas, who both, 
I believe, made their debut then at the St 
James's ; Mrs. Gaston Murray, Mrs + Beer- 
bo hm Tree, Misses Winifred Emery, Kate 
Phillips, Fanny Brough, Louise Moodie, Mr. 
and Mrs. Hermann Vezin, William Terriss, 
Albert Chevalier, 
William Mackintosh, 
Herbert Waring, 
Charles Cartwright, 
Charles Brookfield, H. 
Kemble, and, last but 
not least, Lewis Waller 
and George Alexander. 

At that time, too, I 
have recollections of 
charming little dinners 
given by my old friend 
Colonel Arthur Col- 
lins, and one in par- 
ticular which took 
place on an anniver- 
sary of his birthday, 
when Sir Arthur 
Bigger, Bret Harte, 
and I were the only 

Bret Harte was a 
very abstracted and 
reserved man until he 
was drawn out of him- 
self. He sat very quietly until the dinner 
was half over, when his geniality got the 
better of him and he blossomed forth as a 
brilliant conversationalist, delighting every- 
body by his graphic descriptions of things he 
had seen. I remember very vividly his 
description of a scene he had witnessed in 
his younger days when a journalist or tax- 
collector out in the Far West. Although 
nearly twenty years have passed, I still recall 
that vivid story, though it would require a 
better pen than mine to do justice to the 
dramatic powers of Bret Harte as displayed 
in his terse and telling recital of a tragic 
incident of which he had once been an eye- 
witness. It is impossible to imitate success- 
fully his own eloquent phraseology and the 

P*rom q Photo 

staccato simplicity of his style, but here is 
the gist of a story which I have never since 
heard, and have often wondered why that 
past-master of the art of short stories has not 
himself reproduced it in his own inimitable 

" A man had been arrested for horse- 
stealing or some comparatively petty crime, 
He was ordered to be taken to the nearest 
township by the sheriff of the district, who 
himself accompanied the party. Short shrift 
would doubtless be the doomed man's lot. 
Judged, sentenced, and then shot ! His 
wife — a dark, beautiful t passionate looking 
creole — followed in the wake of the sheriff 
and his myrmidons. Her wild, ungovern 
able disposition and her fierce devotion were 
as proverbial as her 
husband's weakness, 
The moon shone 
brightly on the path 
before them. The 
party picked their way 
through the palm like 
fern and thick under 
brush of the pine 
forest. Lights seemed 
to dance and move 
quickly on the out- 
skirts of the lown. A 
stream rippled quite 
audibly beside them, 
A heavy wind seemed 
to surge in the 
branches of the 
funereal pines, and 
then the silence seemed 
to fall thicker, heavier, 
and deadlier than be- 
fore. The coarse con- 
versation and oaths of 
the men ceased Out 
of the silence came a voice It was the 
rough but tearful prayer of the woman beg- 
ging for the release of the man she loved. 
The sheriff replied with a sneer and an oath. 
The prisoner's wife whipped out a revolver 
and shot him through the heart. Consterna- 
tion reigned supreme for a moment. Then 
lynch law was proclaimed on the spot, The 
woman was captured. At a signal from the 
leader a rope was placed around her neck 
and hoisted over the trunk of the nearest 
tree. She never moved. The grim faces 
of the men were lit up by the torches 
they held aloft. Just at the moment when 
the rope was being tightened around the 
woman's neck, she raffed Tier arm with an 
abrupt ^WVfR^D^ttlClMAfl'' They 

by Tbvrna* frail. 



liKK \\K\W utT 

paused Slowly and placidly she took in her 
right hand the long plait of jet-black hair 
which hung down her back and had become 
entangled with the rope. Drawing her hair 
out, she brought it to the front with a 
sweeping gesture^ and let it droop over 
her gently-heaving bosom. Her rigid line 
of upper lip did not relax or quiver. Her 
eyes did not falter before the cruel gaze 
of her enemies. She looked them scornfully 
in the face. ' Now ! ' she said, as, having 
released her imprisoned hair, her arm sank 
to her side, * I'm ready.' 

"But the rude men were struck dumb 
with admiration at her heroism and paused 
in their resolve. * No ! ' they said, s we 

Digitized by Oc 

will not hang her. Give her another 
chance 1 ' Loosening the rope, they made 
her mount astride a mustang, and, with a 
resounding crack of the long thong of the 
whip, the wild horse bounded into the night 
and disappeared with her into the thickness 
of the forest." 

What happened to her husband we never 
knew, nor did we ask Bret Harte, We were 
too much carried away by the dramatically - 
told history of his heroine. 


Original from 

Tke Doctor' § IDillemm&c 


R. AINGELL stretched back 
in his ancient arm-chair and 
contemplated, with calm satis- 
faction, his red slippered feet. 
It was pleasant to think the 
feet were in slippers at last, 
for an hour before dinner. He had had a 
long, hard day's work. Young as he still 
was, especially in his tardy profession, his 
hours of consultation were already beginning 
to overflow. He was sometimes astonished 
to mark how the snowball of his reputation 
grew. Too conscientious by nature to be an 
optimist, he frequently told himself that it 
would melt still faster. But his colleagues 
did not think so. There was a spreading 
conviction amongst the good people of his 
native city — York— that they had got a very 
good all-round man for internal complaints 
in young -Aingell. And most of the many 
who knew about him were glad for his sake 
that he was doing so well — better every year. 
He had had a difficult youth, what with his 
father's — old Dr. Aingell's — early death and 
his mother's 
(you may just as 

and the trouble with the brother who went 
wrong, and the delicate sisters. Why, at 
one time he had gone as a chemist's boy ; 
very plucky of him, too. And by sheer 
perseverance he had struggled through to 
this position he now held, at about thirty- 
three, if as much. Heaven knows how he 
had got the money for his belated long 
course of study. He wasn't one of the fierce 
fighting kind either, but rather of the gently 
plodding — hardly a man who wants to leap ; 
perhaps one of those who don't mind if they 
fall ; a quiet worker, with his blue eyes and 
curly hair and cheerful "All right," a man 
who didn't like making enemies and who did 
like making friends, kind to his poorest 
patients and to his richest considerate. 
Thus, then, at thirty-three — if as much 

" straitened circumstances " 
well say " poverty "), 

successful. And so he ought to be, with a 
pretty detached house outside the city, and 
a pretty attached wife from inside the city, 
and a heaven-sent, earth-born angel-imp of 
six to play with for a brief hour before work 
daily, and after, and to think of all the 
remaining time, at intervals, like rests. 

" Ten minutes' yawn, and then Frank," 
said Dr. Aingell. He stretched out his hand 
to a couple of comic papers and a cup of 
cold tea. The day had been an arduous 
one. He was going to " lose " a couple of 
patients — one a bright young girl of sixteen. . 
He always spoke to himself of "losing" a 
sufferer, in the doctor's dread duel with 
death. And — ordeal he dreaded and 
detested most of all — he had had not one 
but two anxious inquirers that afternoon in 
his consulting-room, to whom he had been 
compelled to speak words which he ever 
tried vainly to steady upon his kindly lips. 
One thing and another had kept him very 
late. His tea was grown cold. He sighed 
more than he yawned. The comfortable 
chamber seemed heavy with those lingering 
words of doom. He was relieved at finding 
a really funny thing in the first comic paper 
— one of those rare novelties that suddenly 
cause you to burst out laughing aloud. 

The door had opened noiselessly, after an 
inaudible warning ; the doctor's servant stood 
before him. Aingell possessed a jolly, boyish 
laugh. His servant had caught him in the 
middle of it. 

"Why didn't you knock?" reprimanded 
the doctor, not so shamefaced as many a 
more foolish man. 

" I beg your pardon, sir ; I did," replied 
the servant, unsmiling. "There's a gentle- 
man, sir, who says he's anxious " 

" Oh, hang it, Jobling ; what on earth do 
you mean by letting in patients after five? 
It's past six ; you must be going out of your 
mind ! " 




Jobling was not, but he was going out of 
his situation on account of the parlour- maid, 
whom he had " hypnotized," or so she said. 
And the visitor who now thrust past him had 
caused this little intrusion to become " more " 
for Mr. Joseph Jobling than his modest 
" place was worth." 

" You must excuse your man," said the 
visitor, with a subdued imperiousness. "I 
forced my way in." 

Frank Aingell looked further courteous 
inquiry. To do that well, when you are put 
out, requires either a good heart or an in- 
triguing nature. Frank Aingell's soul was 
miles away from counterfeit. 

Mr. Joseph Jobling had discreetly with- 
drawn, jingling in his pocket a couple of 
coins. The visitor assured himself that the 
door was closed, to the doctor's serene 

" My train was late. I missed the con- 
nection. I am greatly indebted to you for 
sparing me a few minutes." The stranger 
spoke in short, sharp sentences, such as those 
use who easily expect to be obeyed. He was 
a man past middle-life — bald-headed, pasty- 
faced, portly. But he was not quite so much 
at his ease as he appeared, for he dropped 
his hat and, in picking it up, stumbled over it. 

" Oh, of course, if you come from " 

said Aingell, and waited for the intruder to 
finish the sentence. 

" Manchester. My name is Mason," replied 
the other. He spoke the words mechani- 
cally, as if he were playing the children's 
game of " Consequences." But undoubtedly 
a young physician must feel flattered when a 
patient comes to consult him across country 
like that. 

" Sit down," Aingell said, gravely. And 
he put the comic papers behind his back. 

" I am ill," began the visitor, abruptly. 
" I suppose most people are who come to a 

" But not always so ill as they think," 
Aingell answered, cheerfully. " In fact, 
hardly ever, I am glad to say." 

" Well, I am. Quite. Because I knew 
before I came." 

Dr. Aingell still looked encouragement, but 
the man's hard, repressed manner rendered it 

" I never was ill before. Not to speak of. 
Never spent ten pounds on doctors in my 
life. But I'm ill now. Have been for six 
months. And I know all about it. Of course, 
you can examine me and find out for 

ik Yes; I had better examine you," answered 

Aingell, with alacrity, a little bewildered, and 
glad to do tire nearest thing. He went 
through his customary investigation with a 
darkening spirit and a steady face. He. had 
early learnt the primal medical rule of never 
appearing hurried or flurried, whatever the 
hour or the case. When he had finished he 
said, looking down and perceiving — with a 
sudden little thrill of discovery — the scarlet 
leather slippers : — 

" What do you know of your own health ? " 

" Of my own disease, you mean," replied 
the patient, brutally. "I know that I've 
only six months to live at the outside." 

" But, if you really thought that, then why 
did you come to me ? " 

"Not to ask you to cure me," retorted 
Mr. Mason. " I've been to the greatest man 
in London before I came here." And again 
he dropped his hat, which he had taken up 
and fingered after the examination was over. 
He let it lie. 

" You must explain," said Dr. Aingell, just 
a trifle nervously. He recovered himself at 
once and looked at the sick man with those 
sympathetic blue eyes of his. 

" You admit, then, in the first place that 
you cannot cure me ? Nobody can cure 
me. There never has been any question of 
a cure." 

" Your case is undoubtedly a serious one." 
Aingell played with his tea-spoon — just 
because the thing happened to be lying near. 

Mr. Mason's .laugh froze the doctor's 
fingers. He dropped the spoon with a clear 
little " ting." 

" Undoubtedly. Nothing could be more 
serious. Serious, in sickness, means that the 
doctor doubts whether he can cure." 

" But even where a cure seems un- 
certain " 

" Stop shamming ! " exclaimed Mason, 

" Sir ? " Frank Aingell had never had so 
abrupt a patient. He drew himself up a bit. 
Tearful mothers were more in his line. 

" I said, ' Stop shamming.' The words 
weren't the prettiest, but they gave you my 
meaning. You can't expect prettiness from a 
man who comes to tell you he knows that he's 
going to die." 

Frank Aingell accepted the situation. It 
was true that he had been " shamming " — if 
you like to call it so. 

" I was only going to suggest that much 
may be done to alleviate," he said, gently. 

The visitor's heavy face cleared at once. 
" Now we understand each other," he said. 
" Now we're talking sense, Yes, much may 




be done to alleviate." He paused for a 
moment, looking straight ahead, in the dimly- 
lighted room, under the fierce electric lamp 
on . the writing-table. Whatever he saw, it 
was not the tumbled heap of papers or the 
neglected tea-things. "Alleviate," he re- 
peated, thoughtfully. His voice changed, 
suddenly brisk. "Tis a beautiful word," he 

" Thank Heaven ! " said Frank Aingell. 

The other glanced at him quickly, 
annoyed. " I suppose so," admitted the 
sick man, dubiously. " I can't say I quite 
see it Perhaps mine's not a thankful spirit 
I prefer, when I feel bad, to feel bad." 

" But I presume that you wish me to pre- 
scribe for you ? " suggested Aingell. His tone 
was as amiable as if his thoughts had not 
been, just for one moment, of young Frank 
tramping and stamping in frantic impatience 
somewhere round the corner, with bed-time 
threatening in every tick of the clock. On 
such occasions Aingell was apt to feel like a 
selfish Titus. 

" I shall be very glad if I can do any- 
thing," he continued. 

11 Will you? That's right Then we shall 
soon be through. But wait a moment " — he 
lifted his hand — " before you prescribe ! " 
His voice shook. " Wait a moment. First, 
let me tell you what ! " 

" I don't think I quite " 

" Wait a minute, I say ! " cried Mason, 
excitedly. "First let me tell you how. I 
mean— listen to me ! " He stamped his foot 
and then, suddenly, he was again the man he 
had been till now, with an imperious manner, 
outwardly calm. 

" My time is yours," said Aingell, sooth- 

The other bent forward, one hand on each 
knee. " I have known for a week now," he 
said, "that I am doomed to die slowly of 
a painful disease. I come to you, as you 
rightly put it, for alleviation. This is the 
form I want your alleviation to take. Give 
me a box with a dozen pills, eleven of which 
are harmless, while one is deadly. Painless, 
as far as possible, and deadly. Let me take 
them away with me, and ask no more." 

Aingell started back, chair and all. " Are 
you " 

" No," interrupted Mason, quickly and 
coolly. " I am simply a man who has been 
healthy all his life, who must die now, any- 
how, at fifty, and who doesn't want to have a 
couple of months' agony at the end." 

" These are not things to come and discuss 
with a doctor — -" 

" I suppose not. Though they will be in 
a few years, when the world is ripe for them. 
I can't go to a chemist — not to get what / 
want. I won't, knowingly, take a dose of 

Aingell gazed at him questioningly. 

" I suppose I'm more nervous than I 
know," concluded Mason, with a brutal snap 
at himself. " I shall take one of your pills 
every other night on retiring, and one morn- 
ing — sooner or later, as chance has it — I 
shall not wake up." 

Aingell, in spite of his " medical capacity," 
could not suppress a faint shudder. But it 
was a very faint one, and Mason decided not 
to notice it 

"The people who try to wake me," he 
continued, "will find a box by my bedside 
containing two or three— or perhaps eleven — 
harmless pills." 

"True," said Aingell, nodding. 

" You see it ? I thought you would. The 
place will be a long distance from here, and 
nobody will have the faintest idea that the 
pills are yours." 

"I suppose not," said Aingell. 

"They will also find your— other pill 
inside me. And that will be the end." 

" I don't sell pills," burst out Aingell. 

" But you did once," retorted the other as 
vehemently. He leant back in his chair and 
scowled under his bushy eyebrows with his 
beady black eyes. 

" True, I started in a shop," replied 
Aingell, quietly. "Though you come from 
Manchester, you seem to be well acquainted 
with York." 

" Tush ! I knew you had been a chemist's 
assistant And therefore you can supply me 
with my pills. I may mention that I am 
willing to pay you sixteen hundred pounds — 
that is, a hundred pounds per bread pill and 
five hundred pounds for — the other ! " 

" Sixteen hundred pounds ! " 

" Sixteen hundred pounds ! It's good pay, 
isn't it ? Though not much, I suppose, for a 
rich man like you. For you're a rich man 
now" There was a slight suggestion of a 
sneer in the whole speech, that culminated 
in the final word. " I won't keep you," said 
Mason, rising. " Give me my pills, or bring 
them to me at the Railway Hotel before 
eight o'clock to-night, when I leave, and the 
sixteen hundred pounds are yours." 

" I am not a rich man," said Aingell, 
standing by the mantelpiece. 

"So much the better. But these things 
are relative. Your mother would say you 





" What do you 
know of my 
mother?" d e - 
manded Aingell, 

"I met her years 
ago. Now— is it 

"I can't do it," 
said Aingell, pull 
i n g himself 
together, " Of 
course not. You 
know I can't ; it's 

** You really 
mean that ? J| The 
uncanny stranger's 
voice grew hoarse. 

"The lawyers 
call it so. As for 
us doctors, I admit 
that we might just 
as reasonably 
abbreviate sii fie r i ng 
as prolong it. But 
I can't poison you 
in the curious way 
you propose, in 
spite of the sym- 
pathy I feel for your 
condition. You 
know I can't." 

M Yes, you can. 
And you'd better, 

too. You'd much better be quick !" Aingell 
looked up in amazement. ,l Don't let's lose 
more words. Dr. Aingell, Agree to my terms 
without more ado." 

II You speak as if you could compel me ! " 
Friendly as his habit was* Frank Aingell now 
threw up his chin. 

II I don't want to compel you, I'll give 
you more money, if you like, though I think 
my offers generous. But I haven't a relative 
in the world to leave a halfpenny to, so I 
don't care," 

" I refuse," said Dr. Aingell, and his whole 
manner indicated that the interview was at 
an end. 

li No, you don V 

" I refuse, for, whatever my private opinion 
might be, the world, as you say, isn't ripe yet 
for anything of the kind. You will excuse 
me " His hand moved towards the bell 

"By Heaven, you would do it if you 
dared ! " 

"Never mind what I would do. In any 
case, I don't dare. I see perfectly well that 

Vot ax* vi — 4, 


I run no risk for my reputation. But I don't 
dare take in my own hand the issues of life 
and death." He spoke with reverence, and 
unconsciously he bowed his head. 

" Don't be so sure about your reputation. 
You talked just now of compelling. I don't 
want to compel." There was no mistaking 
the assured menace of the tone, Aingell 
faced the undreamed-of danger. 

" Speak plainly," he said " Don't beat 
about the bush any more/' 

"You will give me these pills because I 
can make you give them me. That is why I 
came to you from — Manchester. Don't ask, 
but do as I say," 

"I am not a child," replied Aingell, folding 
his arms, 

"Yes, you are — your mother's child," ex- 
claimed the stranger, triumphantly. For a 
moment Aingell again tried to imagine the 
man must be deranged in his mind, but he 
was too much of a doctor not to recognise 
sanity whea lie: saw it. 

liffl , ro*fff'j|itfi(nffi3*" decI,ired the 



stranger, with dogged intensity. "Your 
mother's reputation is in my hands." 

" You are ill, and I pity you," said 
Aingell, fiercely. 

"Thank you. May I briefly explain? 
Thirteen years ago I arrived at York Station 
on my way south one day. I had to change. 
I hurried along the platform, putting some 
bank-notes into my pocket-book as I went. 
I dropped one, and I saw a respectable- 
looking female pick it up. That'll do. You 
just give me my pills." 

" You don't leave this room till you've told 
all," said Frank, by the door. 

"Don't threaten me; it's no go. I've 
been threatened all my life. It's part of the 
joke of fighting. The lady was your mother, 
and the note was a hundred pound one." 

" My mother ! Well, what of that ? " 

" Only that she quickly hid it away and 
took it home. When I called on her next 
day — for T just left my train and followed the 
matter up ; that's a little mania of mine, as 
you'll see — I found twenty pounds of it had 
gone to pay the rent and other things. You 
were rather hard up in those days, you must 

" Poor mother ! " said Aingell. 

"You don't know where the other eighty 
went ? " Mr. Mason Smiled with his eye- 

"I can guess," replied Aingell, humbly, 
like a dog that gives in. 

"They took you away from the chemist's 
and started you on your present career. 
That's what they did. And they even called 
for more, from time to time, and got them. 
Did you really think your medical studies 
cost nothing ? " 

" I knew better than that. But my poor 
mother told me she had ' found a stocking — 
of my father's.' Then I earned all 1 could. 
In any case, I don't understand why you 
should have paid for me?" He tried to 
make sense of things ; his brain whirled. 

" Oh, not for love — of you or anyone else. 
Nothing so commonplace as that. I have 
a little paper here " — he tapped his manly 
breast — "in my pocket-book, in which your 
mother admits that she stole a hundred 
pounds from me, and that you helped her." 

" I helped her ! " 

"Oh, I just put that in, and she signed. 
It made the claim so much stronger. She 
was dreadfully nervous, poor creature, about 
not being able to refund the twenty pounds ! " 

" And so now you come to claim your 
pound of flesh ! " 

" What do you mean ? Pound of flesh ! 

As I've made you a doctor the least thing 
you can do for me is to give me the benefit 
of your skill." 

" You shall have it, Mr. Mason. As far 
as I " 

The stranger waved him aside. " My 
name isn't Mason; never mind what it is. 
I don't come from Manchester ; never mind 
where I come from. Your mother doesn't 
know. But the old lady and you'll have an 
uncomfortable time unless you sell me those 
pills and let me go." 

" My mother ! " 

" You see what a price I'm paying — 
sixteen hundred, and this little paper in 

" All her life the poor thing has had this 
sword of yours hanging over her head." 

" Call it a sword if you like. / consider 
I treated her uncommon handsome." 

The doctor turned on his tormentor. 
" Why did you continue to give money 
for me ? " 

" Why ? So as to get a better hold of you 
— and so I have now, hang you ! I beg your 
pardon, but you've put me out. The thing 
was so simple. I offered you the money and 
there was an end of it. But I've got you 
and your mother, young man. I like getting 
people ; I've liked it all my life. D'ye know 
what I am? She don't. A money-lender. 
And I do a lot of dirty business. 'Have 
done,' I should say. I've got boxes full of 
' compromisers,' as I call 'em. I collect 'em ; 
it's my hobby. And you needn't think I use 
'em to make money by. But you never know 
when they may come in useful. When I saw 
your mother do that, I said ' Here's a chance ' 
at once. And look what's come of it ! Oh, 
life's rare fun. But I won't have pain. No ; 
I won't have pain ! " He drew a pocket- 
handkerchief over his big forehead, and sank 
down exhausted. 

" So now you know the price," he said. 

" If I don't give you this poison ? " said 
Aingell, in a tone as if he were thinking it out 
for himself. He sat down again, sweeping as 
he did so a comic paper off the table. A 
hideously grinning clown, brightly coloured, 
fell between him and his tempter. 

"I put the old lady and you too in the 

" After all these years ? I don't believe 
you can do it." 

Aingell steadied his voice. But in his 
heart he knew, like all non-lawyers, that every 
monstrosity becomes a reality as soon as you 
approach it from the side of the law. 

"%MftV id the mo ^-" !ndw ' 



[licking iiis teeth, "Your mother appro- 
priated the money ; there can be no doubt of 

" She found it lying on the platform. She 
had no idea, whose it was." 

The other laughed "So she said. Well, 
I've got you. I paid honestly for you, I 
had no idea what I could use you for. But 
one can always make something of a person 
one has got in his power. Lord, how things 
work round! I'm glad I've got you." He 
put his fat fingers to his throbbing throat 

11 You have not got me," replied Aingell, 
contemplating the funny clown upon the 
floor. M My mother herself 
would reject peace at that 
price. Go and ask her. 

11 Let us leave ladies out 
of the discussion. Like you 
- -so I've heard— Fve a weak 
heart for ladies," 

"There is no discussion. 
I have nothing more to say. 
Do your worst ! " 

The visitor got up. 
send me out into 
the dark ! Out into 
the hopeless dark ! 
Do you know what 
that means ? You 
send me back to my 
miserable, gloomy 
home — I didn't know 
it was miserable till 
I got ill— and I can 
wait there, without a 
soul to care for me 
—wait there, while 
the pain grows worse 
and worse, for death: 
Presently, in a month 
or two, I can go and 
lie in my bed, with 
nobody but an old 
hag to wonder what 
Til leave her! — lie 
looking at my ' com- 
promisers 3 all round 
me, thinking of all 
the people I could 
ruin, and nobody 
being ruined but me ! 
And there I can 
shriek my life out, 
slowly — as I watched 
another man do. 
years ago — t he 
only friend I ever 

" I can't murder you," said Aingell. 
" But you would if you could 1 Your voice 
tells me you would if you could ! " 

il I'm in God's hands, and so are you," said 
Aingell He sank his face on the table and 
motioned the other away. 

The sick man crept to the door, as if 
exhausted by his supreme and futile attempt. 
Once only he turned. u I shall wait for you," 
he said, "at the Railway Hotel till eight 
o'clock," and went away. 

He stumbled down the staircase; no 
servant came to let him out. The cold 
autumn air struck him in the face as he 

opened the front 
door. It had 
already become 
dark; a grey mist 
was creeping up 
across the race* 

1 tit: fjlLL hkauijOM^, 

uwBBiTr wmxmr 



course. He felt dizzy, with this altogether 
new weakness and singing in the head. The 
tension had been far greater than he dreamed. 
He had always been his own master — a bully, 
untouched by "nerves." 

His plan had failed, then — his carefully- 
elaborated plan. He had been certain of 
success. He had almost always succeeded 
when he offered people money, and always 
when he threatened them. After all, it served 
him right. No one had ever succeeded who 
threatened him. 

He twisted aside to find his way down the 
steps, which separated in a semicircle round 
a little rockery, and, as he did so, inattentive 
in the dark, preoccupied, he somehow lost 
his dizzy balance, desperately attempted to 
recover it, and fell headlong, heavy, into a 
low conservatory — a glass veranda that ran 
along the breakfast-room in the basement. 

The fall rendered him unconscious. He 
lay there, unnoticed, in that dark corner of 
the deserted house. 

Some ten minutes or more after the 
money-lender had gone Aingell lifted his 
white face, recovered himself with an effort, 
and, remembering that his wife was having 
tea with relatives, went out to fetch her 
home. The walk would do him good. 
He asked for Master Frank in the lobby. 
Master Frank, tired of waiting, had run 
across to his grandmother's. The parlour- 
maid, having closed the door on the doctor, 
retired to inspect an outhouse with Jobling. 
Aingell turned down the farther flight of the 
semicircle and ran into the night. 

Long after the man in the smash of the 
conservatory awoke to semi -consciousness. 
In falling he had caught at jagged pieces of 
breaking glass — his exposed forearm and 
wrist had come down on the sharp edges 
with the full weight of his massive frame. 
He was horribly cut, without knowing it, in 
the dark. He lay in the warm stickiness of 
his fast-flowing blood. The great artery of 
the left arm was injured. He was bleeding 
to death. 

Nothing roused him till a child's shrill 
voice called outside : " Why, grannie, the 
'ferandaV broken!" Frankie's grandmother 
had resolved to see the boy home and tell 
her son that he mustn't overwork himself. 
The doctor had been looking fagged for the 
last few days. And why should he ? The 
future was his. There was money enough 
now, at last. 

A moment later the old lady, trembling 
with alarm, stood under an electric glare, the 
awed child by her side, in the wreck of the 

Digitized by ^OOgle 

conservatory. Among broken panes and 
laths and flower-pots lay, in a tangled heap, 
with trailing leaves over his face and bosom, 
the figure of a senseless man. One arm hung 
limp, and from this a bright red stream was 
pulsing in ceaseless spouts upon the soddened 

The wounded man opened faint eyes to 
the sudden light. His features were cut and 
swollen and half hidden, but he recognised, 
in a flash, the feeble old face that bent over 
his. The child shrank against his grand- 
mother's skirt, half curious, half terrified. 

" A burglar ! " reasoned Mrs. Aingell at 
once. " Go, child ! Call your father ! 
Quick ! " But the child pressed closer, 
afraid of the shadowy room behind. 

" Help ! " articulated the money-lender. 

Old Mrs. Aingell knew, as we all do, that 
the bleeding must be stopped at once, if it 
had not lasted too long already, but, like most 
of us, she did not know how. She was not a 
strong-minded woman ; the medical vocation 
of her men-folk had never been hers. 

She hurried to the bell and rang it, in vain, 
for Jobling and Gladys were beyond the reach 
of bells, and the cook made a rule of " mind- 
ing her own business," which meant never 
helping with other people's. Little Frank 
ran into the empty house, calling for dad ! 

Meanwhile the old woman took out her 
pocket-handkerchief and bound it along the 
great jagged tear down the forearm. She 
tightened it towards the wrist as she went, 
compressing the veins only with the flimsy 
rag. The blood spurted the faster from the 
injured artery, inundating the bit of cambric 
in a moment. She seized an antimacassar 
and bound it over the handkerchief in the 
same painstaking, mistaken manner. 

Semi-conscious as he was, the wounded 
man felt the blood pressing back to his heart 
the faster and draining away from it. He 
wondered vaguely whether this was the right 
change towards recovery or the beginning of 
the end. Ought she not to have lifted his 
arm ? He did not know ; he did not much 
care. Suddenly he realized that she was 
doing for him what he had vainly begged of 
her son. He was dying or recovering ; he 
couldn't tell. Presently he would sink to 
sleep, ignoring the possibilities of awakening. 

From the vehemence of this impression he 
drew strength to turn his head and gaze at 
her. And in that moment, as the broken 
fragments fell away and the full light struck 
the struggling face, she recognised the man 
whose sleeping threat had been the terror of 
her life. Her fear, then, had come true after 





all these years ! He had spoken to her 
son* And that son, doubtless, in reply, 
had flung him out of doors and murdered 
him ! 

Her knees gave way ; she sank down in 
terrified prayer. She didn't know what she 
was doing or say- 
ing, "My son!" 
son ! 


Aingell, returning with his wife, found him 
thus* As he hastily unwound the bandage* 
he saw how badly the work had been done, 

<( I did my best," said old Mrs. Aingell, 
watching anxiously. "I hope I did well ? " 



he said ; his own heart 



" Dad isn't there ! " he said. " Nobody's 
there. I'm afraid." He clung to his grand- 
mother with sobs. 

Once more in the course of that long wait 
the money-lender opened his eyes. His 
thoughts were of green fields and bubbling 
brooks and happiness. With a superhuman 
effort — he knew it was superhuman- he drew 
a pocket-book forth with his uninjured 

" For you," he whispered, looking to 
the child, as the book dropped upon his 

threatened to stand still. This, then, was 
the end* 

" How is he ? " persisted the old woman. 

" Don't ask, mother." 

" But, Frank, why not? I want to know. 
Oh, Frank, what did you do to him ? What 
did he teil you ? H 

" I ? I did nothing to him. Why should 
I have done anything, mother ? " 

The little boy had ventured to pick the 
pocket- book from where it lay on the dead 
man's breast, 

" tor me," he said 

by Google 

Original from 



Portraits of Celebrities at Different Ages. 



one of the for- 
tunate possess- 
ors of that 
magic gift which we call 
personality. In any career 
personal magnetism 
counts for much, but to 
the statesman the gift is 
beyond price. In combi- 
nation with his practical 
common sense it has 
contributed in no small 
degree to the success of 
the Chancellor of the 

In a chapter of auto- 
biography Mr, Lloyd 
George has told us some- 
thing of his early years 
He was but two years old 
when his father died, and 
his mother made her home 
with her father and brother 
in her native place of 
Llanystumdwy* " My life 
and career, after my 
mother, I owe mainly to 
an uncle, who was more 
than a parent to me. I 
can never tell how much 
I owed to this good man." 
Very early in life he 
showed signs of that in- 
dependence of thought 
which has since been one 
of his great characteristics, 
Brought up as a Baptist, 
he was sent to the ( hurch 
school at Llanystumclwy 
—the only school in the 
village- During an exami- 
nation on the Church 
Catechism he objected to 
certain questions as re- 
flecting on Nonconform- 
ity, and refused to answer 

them. So stubbornly did 
he stick to his convictions 
that he induced his fellow- 
scholars to join with him 
in his passive resistance 
to answering questions he 
considered an insult to 
his religious belief. The 
plan was successful, for 
the obnoxious questions 
were discontinued. Read 
in the light of after events 
the incident is of peculiar 

His school days over, 
there followed a period in 
the office of a firm of 
solicitors at Portmadoc to 
whom his uncle had 
articled him. Passing the 
qualifying examination as 
a solicitor, he served his 
firm as manager, and after- 
wards opened offices for 
himself at Portmadoc, 
Criccieth, and elsewhere. 
Then came an event 
which caused his name to 
be known throughout 
Wales and altered the 
whole course of his life* 
The story of the Llanfro- 
than burial case is pro- 
bably well enough known 
not to need retelling in 
full The trouble was 
brought about by the dying 
request of a quarry man 
that he might be buried 
by the side of his daughter 
in the village churchyard. 
The quarry man was a Dis- 
senter, and though the 
vicar was compelled, under 
the Burials Act, to allow 
the body to be interred, 
he chose as the site of the 

From a FKotoffraph. 



churchyard set apart for suicides and the 
bodies of the unknown drowned. 

Thoroughly incensed by this act — the more 
soj seeing that Nonconformist subscriptions 
had materially helped in securing the ground 
— the villagers consulted Mr, Lloyd George. 
He advised them to force the gates of the 
churchyard. This was done, and resulted In 
fines for trespass, Then ensued protracted 
litigation, marked by great bitterness, hut 
in the end Mr, Lloyd George emerged 
triumphant. Naturally enough, the champion 
of the people's right became the hero of the 
Principality, and at the first by-election was 
returned for the Car- 
narvon Boroughs. 

Mr. Lloyd George 
is a bom fighter, with 
the courage of his con- 
victions, and a habit 
of expressing them in 
no uncertain manner. 
But, though he hits 
hard, he is singularly 
free from malice, and 
much of ihe sting in 
his words is belied by 
the geniality of his 
manner. As a debater 
there are few to 
equal him on either 
side of the House, as 
he has proved time 
and again both in 
Opposition and in 
office. He is a most 
effective speaker, too, 
on the public plat- 
form, his gift of 
lucidity, coupled 
with a keen sense of 

humour, making him everywhere a great 

It was in 1890 that he was first elected 
as member for the Carnarvon Boroughs, 
a constituency which has shown its faith 
in him at each succeeding election. Nearly 
sixteen years later came his appointment 
aj President of the Board of Trade— an 
appointment viewed by many with not a 
little uneasiness. How would one so pas- 
sionate, so outspoken, so untrammelled by 
convention as this young Welshman deal 
w T ith the problems he would be called upon 
to solve ? Possibly, on looking bade, this 
uneasiness was not altogether ill-founded, 
when we remember the many fierce con- 

From a Phot* &jr Lock it WKitML 

by Google 

troversies in which the " member for Wales 1 ' 
had been the leading figure. Vet his success 
has been complete and unquestioned, and 
his handling of more than one difficult 
problem earned for him the praise of the 
country, irrespective of party. 

His term of office at the Board of Trade 
was noteworthy for the reform of merchant 
shipping and of patent law, the Bill dealing 
witi the former question having the some- 
what 'unusual effect of pleasing all concerned. 
His Census of Production Act will enable 
us to obtain statistical information with regard 
to the trade of the country, in which respect 

we have for years been 
behind such competi- 
tors as the United 
States and Germany. 
The Port of London 
question, which had 
baffled more than one 
of his predecessors, 
has been solved to 
the satisfaction of all. 
And — what is to 
many people his 
greatest achievement 
— he succeeded in 
bringing to an end the 
recent unfortunate 
railway dispute, and 
so saved the country 
from the losses, to 
say nothing of the 
inconvenience, which 
would have resulted 
fromastrike. It should 
be remembered, too, 
that these are but the 
outstanding features 
— the landmarks, as it 
were — of an exceptionally busy two years. It 
has been well said of him that "he may 
dream in Welsh, but he acts in English." 

To realize to the full the hold Mr. Lloyd 
George has un the affections of the Welsh 
people one must listen to him addressing 
a meeting in his native country. Such 
enthusiasm as he can arouse is rarely found 
beyond the borders of Wales, and is an 
eloquent illustration of the power of per- 
sonality. As he is still a young man— being 
only forty- five — much may be expected of 
him in the future. He has been called the 
business-man of the Cabinet^ and now that 
he is the holder of the nation's purse-strings, 
is surely the right man in the right place, 
Original from 

m mm 


S night descended— cold and 
damp — the wind hauled, arid 
by nine o'clock the ship was 
charging along before a half- 
gale and a rising sea from the 
port quarter. When the watch 
had braced the yards, the mate ordered the 
spanker brailed in and the mizzen-royal 
clewed up, as the ship steered hard. This 
was done, and the men coiled up the gear. 

*' Let the spanker hang in the brails — tie 
up the royal," ordered the mate from his 
position at the break of the poop. 

"Aye, aye, sir," answered a voice from the 
group, and an active figure sprang into the 
rigging. Another figure— slim and graceful, 
clad in long yellow oilskin coat and sou* wester, 
which latter could not confine a tangled fringe 
of wind-blown hair— left the shelter of the 
after -com pan ion -way and sped along the alley 
to the mate's side. 

"The foot-rope, Mr. Adams," she said, 
hurriedly. "The seizing was chafed, you 

*' By George, Miss Freda ! Th said the officer. 

"Forgot all about it. Glad you spoke. 

Come down from aloft," he added, in a roar. 

The sailor answered and descended. 

"Get a piece of spun yarn out o' the 

booby- hatch and take it up wi 1 you/ 1 COn- 
^ul. XJUkVJ.-- 5. 

tinued the mate. " Pass a temporary seizing 
on the lee royal foot-rope. Make sure its 
all right 'fore you get on it, now," 

"Aye, aye, sir." 

The man passed down the poop steps, 
secured a marline-spike and the spun yarn, 
and, while rolling the latter into a I jail 
to put in his pocket, stood for a moment in 
the light shining from the second mate's 
room. The girl on the poop looked down 
at him. He was a trim-built, well-favoured 
young fellow, with more refinement in his 
face than most tailors can show ; yet there 
was no lack of seamanly deftness in the 
fingers which bailed up the spun yarn and 
threw a half-hitch with the bight of the 
lanyard over the point of the marline-spike 
which hung to his neck. As he climbed the 
steps the girl faced him, looking squarely 
into his eyes, 

"Be careful, John — Mr. Owen. The 
seizing is chafed through. I heard the man 
report it — it was Dutch George of the other 
watch. Do be careful/* 

* ( Eh, why— why, yes, Miss Folsom, Thank 
you* But you startled me. I've been Jack 
for three years — -not John — nor Mister. Yes, 
it's all right, I " 

" Get alpf^frjtJi|af ri g^zen'royal," thundered 



" Aye, aye, sir." He touched his sou'- 
wester to the girl and mounted the weather 
mizzen tigging, running up the ratlines as a 
fireman goes up a ladder. It was a black 
night with cold rain, and, having thrown off 
his oiled jacket, he was already drenched to 
the skin ; but no environment of sunshine, 
green fields and woodland, or of flower- 
scented air ever made life brighter to him 
than had the incident of the last few 
moments ; and with every nerve in his body 
rejoicing in his victory, and her bitter words 
of four years back crowding his mind as a 
contrasting background, he danced up and 
over the futtock-shrouds, up the topmast 
rigging, through the crosstrees, up the top- 
gallant rigging to where the ratlines ended 
and he must climb on the runner of the royal 
halyards. As the yard was lowered this was 
a short climb, and he swung himself upward 
to the weather yard-arm, where he rolled up 
one side of the sail with extravagant waste of 
muscular effort. For she had said he was 
not a man, and he had proved her wrong— 
he had conquered himself, and he had 
conquered her. 

He hitched the gasket and crossed over to 
the lee-side, forgetting, in his exhilaration, 
the object of the spun yarn in his pocket 
and the marline-spike hung from his neck — 
stepped out on the foot- rope, passed his 
hands along the jackstay to pull himself 
farther, and felt the foot-rope sink to the 
sound of snapping strands. The jackstay 
was torn from his grasp, and he fell, face 
downward, into the black void beneath. 

An involuntary shriek began on his lips, 
but was not finished. He felt that the last 
atom of air was jarred from his lungs by 
what he knew was the topgallant yard, four 
feet below the royal, and, unable to hold on, 
with a freezing cold in his veins and at 
the hair-roots, he experienced in its fullness 
the terrible sensation of falling, whirling 
downward, clutching wildly at vacancy with 
stiffened fingers. 

The first horror past, his mind took on a 
strange contemplativeness ; fear of death 
gave way to mild curiosity as to the manner 
of it. Would he strike on the lee quarter, 
or would he go overboard ? And might he 
not catch something? There was rigging 
below him — the lee-royal backstay stretched 
farthest out from the mast, and if he brushed 
it there was a possible chance. He was now 
face upward, and with the utmost difficulty 
moved his eyes — he could not yet by any 
exercise of will or muscle move his head — 
and there, almost within reach, was a dark 

line, which he knew was the royal backstay. 
Farther in toward the spars was another — the 
topgallant backstay, and within this two 
other ropes which he knew for the topgallant 
rigging, though he could see no ratlines, nor 
could he distinguish the lay of the strands — 
the ropes appeared like solid bars. This, 
with the fact that he was still but a few feet 
below the topgallant yard, surprised him, until 
it came to him that falling bodies travel over 
sixteen feet in the first second of descent, 
which is at a rate too fast for distinct vision, 
and that the apparent slowness of his falling 
was but relative — because of the quickness of 
his mind, which could not wait on a sluggish 
optic nerve and more sluggish retina. 

Yet, he wondered why he could not reach 
out and grasp the backstay. It seemed as 
though invisible fetters bound every muscle 
and joint — though not completely. An 
intense effort of will resulted in the slow ex- 
tension of all the fingers of his right hand, 
and a little straightening of the arm toward 
the backstay ; but not until he had fallen to 
the level of the upper topsail-yard was this 
result reached. It did no good ; the back- 
stay was now farther away. As it led in a 
straight line from the royal-masthead to the 
rail, this meant that he would fall overboard, 
and the thought comforted him. The con- 
cussion would kill him, of course ; but no 
self-pity afflicted him now. He merely con- 
sidered that she — who had relented — would 
be spared the sight of him crushed to a pulp 
on the deck. 

As he drifted slowly down past the expanse 
of upper topsail he noticed that his head 
was sinking and his body turning so that he 
would ultimately face forward ; but still his 
arms and legs held their extended position, 
like those of a speared frog, and the thought 
recalled to him an incident of his infancy— a 
frog-hunt with an older playmate, his prowess, 
success, wet feet, and consequent illness. It 
had been forgotten for years, but the chain 
was started, and led to other memories, long 
dead, which rose before him. His childhood 
passed in review, with its pleasures and 
griefs ; his schooldays, with their sports, con- 
flicts, friends, and enemies; college, where 
he had acquired the polish to make him 
petted of all but one— and abhorrent to her. 
Every person, man or woman, boy or girl, 
with whom he had conversed in his whole 
life came back and repeated the scene ; and 
as he passed the lower topsail-yard, nearly 
head downward, he was muttering common- 
places to a browxvfaced, prey-eyed girl, who 

listene tNl^s|fr5?iAA^ rough and 



through, and seemed to be wondering why 
he existed, And as he traversed the depth 
of the lower topsail, turning gradually on his 
axis, he was living it over — next to his first 
voyage the most harrowing period of his life 
— the short two months during which he had 
striven vainly to impress this si m pi en a tu red 
sailor-girl with his good qualities, ending at 
last with his frantic declaration of a love that 
she did not want, 

i( But it's not the least use, John," she was 
saying ; 4t I do not love you, and I cannot. 
You are a gentleman, as they say, and as 
such I like you well enough ; but I never 

can love you, nor anyone like you, Fve 
been among men — real men — all my life, 
and perhaps have ideals that are strange to 
you. John " — her eyes were wide open in 
earnestness — u you are not a man." 

Writhing under her words— which would 
have been brutal, spoken by another — he 
cursed, not her nor himself, but his luck and 
the fate that had shaped his life ; and next 
she was showing him the opened door, saying 
that she could tolerate profanity in a man, 
but not in a gentleman, and that under no 
circumstances was he to claim her acquaint- 
ance again. Then followed the snubbing in 

Original from 
t6nM "" c nWtftmYOF MICHIGAN 



the street, when, like a lately-whipped dog, he 
had placed himself in her way, hoping she 
would notice him ; and the long agony of 
humiliation and despair, as his heart and soul 
followed her over the seas in her father's ship, 
until the seed she had planted — the small 
suspicion that her words were true — developed 
into a wholesome conviction that she had 
measured him by a higher standard than any 
he had known, and found him wanting. So 
he would go to her school and learn what 
she knew. 

With lightning-like rapidity his mind 
rehearsed the details of his tuition — the four 
long voyages ; the brutality of the officers 
until he had learned his work ; their con- 
sideration and rough kindness when he had 
become useful and valuable ; the curious, 
incongruous feeling of self-respect that none 
but able-seamen feel ; the growth in him of 
an aggressive physical courage; the triumphant 
satisfaction with which he finally knew himself 
as a complete man, clean in morals and mind, 
able to look men in the face. And then came 
the moment when, mustering at the capstan 
with the new crew of her father's ship, he had 
met her surprised eyes with a steady glance, 
and received no recognition. 
* And so he pleaded his cause, dumbly, by 
the life that he lived. Asking nothing by 
word or look, he proved himself under her 
eyes — first on deck ; first in the rigging ; the 
best man at a weather earing ; the best at 
the wheel ; quick, obedient, intelligent, and 
respectful, winning the admiration of his 
mates and jealous ill-will of the officers, but 
no sign of interest or approval from her 
until to-night— the ninety-second day of the 
passage. She had surrendered ; he had 
reached her level, only to die ; and he 
thought this strange. 

Facing downward, head inboard now, and 
nearly horizontal, he was passing the cro-jack 
yard. Below him was the sea — black and 
crisp, motionless as though carved in ebony. 
Neither was there movement of the ship and 
its rigging ; the hanging bights of ropes were 
rigid, while a breaking sea just abaft the main 
chains remained poised, curled, its white crest 
a frozen pillow of foam. " The rapidity of 
thought," he mused, dream. ly ; "but I'm 
falling fast enough — fast enough to kill me 
when I strike." 

Forgotten for years, there sang in his mind 
a schoolday formula of physics, " The velo- 
city of a freely falling body at the end of any 
second of its descent is equal to thirty-two 
and sixteen-hundredths feet multiplied by the 
number of the second." 

" Yes, but I've been falling twenty-five 
years. I have the height of the topgallant 
yard — one hundred and twenty feet. Now 
let's try again — 'The distance traversed by 
a freely falling body during any number 
of seconds is equal to sixteen and eight- 
hundredths feet multiplied by the square of 
the number of seconds.' Inversely — ' The 
square of the seconds is equal to the distance 
— one hundred and twenty — divided by six- 
teen and eight-hundredths.' " 

A mental calculation gave him seven and 
forty-six-hundredths as the square of the 
number of seconds, and another gave him 
two and seven-tenths for the square root of 
this number. " Never imagined I was so 
good at mental arithmetic. Now, once more ; 
I'll have been falling actually, two and seven- 
tenths seconds by cold figures." Applying 
the first formula he found that he would 
strike that solid black water with a velocity 
of eighty-six and eighty-three-hundredths feet 
per second. The result was satisfying ; he 
would die quickly. He could not move an 
eyelid now, nor was he conscious that he 
breathed, but, being nearly upright, facing 
aft and inboard, the quarter-deck and its 
fittings were before his eyes, and he saw 
what brought him out of eternity to a 
moment of finite time and emotion. The 
helmsman stood at the motionless wheel 
with his right hand poised six inches above a 
spoke— as though some sudden paralysis 
gripped him — and his face, illumined by the 
binnacle light, turned aloft inquiringly. But 
it was not this. Standing at the taffrail, one 
hand on a life-buoy, was a girl in yellow 
looking at him — unspeakable horror in the 
look — -and around her waist the arm of the 
mate, on whose rather handsome face was an 
evil grin. 

A pang of earthly rage and jealousy shot 
through him, and he wished to live. By a 
supreme effort of will he brought his legs 
close together and his arms straight above 
his head ; then the picture before him shot 
upward, and he was immersed in cold salt 
water with blackness all about him. How 
long he remained under water he could not 
guess. He had struck feet first and suffered 
no harm, but had gone down like a deep-sea 
lead. He felt the aching sensation in his 
lungs coming from suppressed breathing, and 
swam blindly in the darkness, not knowing 
in which direction was the surface, until he 
felt the marline-spike, still fastened to his 
neck, extending off to the right. Sure that 
it must hang downward, he turned the other 
way, and, keeping \t parallel with his body, 

tia, keeping a p&vauei witn 




swam, with bursting lungs, until he felt air 
upon his face and knew that he could breathe. 
In choking sobs and gasps his breath came 
and went, while he paddled with hands and 
feet, glad of his reprieve ; and when his 
lungs worked normally he struck out for a 
white, circular life-buoy, not six feet away, 
" Bless her for this/' he prayed, as he slipped 
it under his arms. His oilskin trousers were 
cumbersome, a.nd with a little trouble he 
shed them, 

He was alive, and his world was again in 
motion. Seas lifted and dropped him, occa- 
sionally breaking over his head. In the 
calm of the hollows he listened— for voices 
of possible rescuers. On the tops of the 
seas— ears filled with the roar of the gale — 
he shouted, facing to leeward, and searching 
with strained eyes for sign of the ship or one 
of her boats. At last he saw a pinpoint of 
light, far away, and around it and above it 
blacker darkness, which was faintly shaped 
to the outline of a ship and canvas— hove-to 
in the trough, with maintopsail 
aback, as he knew by its fore- 
shortening. And even as he ^ 

looked and shouted it faded 
away. He screamed and 

life-buoy, and with every heaving sea the boat 
came nearer. At last he recognised it— the 
ship's dinghy, and it was being pulled into 
the teeth of that forceful wind and sea by 
a single rower — a slight figure in yellow, 

" Heavens, it's Freda! " he said ; and then, 
in a shout, u This way, Miss Folsom —a little 


- ursed, for he wanted to live. He had sur- 
vived that terrible fall, and it was his right. 

Something white showed on the top of a 
sea to leeward and sank in a hollow. He 
sank with it, and when they both raised again 
it was nearer* 

** Boat ahoy ! n he sang out. " Boat ahoy — 
this way— port a little— steady ! ,; 

He swam as he could, cumbered by the 

She turned, nodded, and pulled the 
boat up to him. He seized the gun- 
wale, and she took in the oars. 

"Can you climb in alone, John?" 
she asked in an even voice — as even 
as though she were asking him to 
have more tea " Wait a little— I am 
tired — and I will help you. 1 * 

She was ever calm and dispassionate, 

but he wondered at her now ; yet he 

would not be outdone, 

" I'll climb over the stern, Freda, so as 

not to capsize you. Better go forward to 

balance my weight." 

She did so; he pulled himself to the stem, 
slipped the life buoy over his head and into 
the boat, then by a mighty exercise of all his 
strength vaulted aboard with seeming ease 
and sat down on a thwart He felt a strong 



himself; for masculine hysterics would not 
do before this young woman. She came aft 
to the next thwart, and when he felt steadier 
he said : — 

"You have saved my life, Freda; but 
thanks are idle now, for your own is in 
danger. Give me the oars. We must go 
back to the ship." 

She changed places with him, facing for- 
ward, and said, wearily, as he shipped the 
oars : " So you want to get back ? " 

"Why, yes — don't you? We are adrift in 
an open boat." 

" The wind is going down, and the seas do 
not break," she answered, in the same weary 
voice. " It does not rain any more, and we 
shall have the moon." 

A glance around told him that she spoke 
truly. There was less pressure to the wind, 
and the seas rose and fell, sweeping past 
them like moving hills of oil. Moonlight, 
shining through thinning clouds, faintly illu- 
mined her face, and he saw the expression- 
less weariness of her voice in it, and a sad, 
dreary look in her grey eyes. 

" How did you get the dinghy down, 
Freda ? " he asked. " And why did no one 
come with you ? " 

"Father was asleep, and the mate was 
incompetent. I had my revolver, and they 
backed the yards for me and threw the 
dinghy over. I had loosened the gripes as 
you went aloft. I thought you would fall. 
Still, no one would come." 

"And you came alone," he said, in a 
broken voice, "and pulled this boat to wind- 
ward in this sea? You are a wonder." 

" I saw you catch the life-buoy. Why did 
you fall? You were cautioned." 

" I forgot the foot-rope. I was thinking 
of you." 

" You are like the mate. He forgot the 
foot-rope all day, because he was thinking 
of me. I should have gone aloft and seized 
it myself." 

There was no reproof or sarcasm in the 
tired voice. She had simply made an 

" Why are you at sea — before the mast — a 
man of your talents ? " 

It was foolish, he knew, but the word 
" man " sent a thrill through him. 

"To please you, if I may — to cultivate 
what you did not find in me ! " 

"Yes, 1 knew; when you came on board 
I knew it. But you might have spoken to me." 

There was petulance in the tone now, and 
the soul of the man rejoiced. The woman 
in her was asserting itself. 


" Miss Folsom," he answered, warmly, " I 
could not. You had made it impossible. It 
was your right — your duty, if you wished it. 
But you ignored my existence." 

" I was testing you. I am glad now, Mr. 

The petulance was gone, but there was 
.something chilling in this answer. 

"Can you see the ship?" he asked, after 
a moment's silence. "The moonlight is 

" We shall not reach her. They have 
squared away. The mate had the deck and 
father is asleep." 

"And left you in an open boat," he 
answered, angrily. 

" He knew^ 1 was with you." 

What was irrelevant in this explanation of 
the mate's conduct escaped him at the time. 
The full moon had emerged from behind the 
racing clouds and it lit up her face, fringed 
by the tangled hair and yellow sou'wester, to 
an unearthly beauty he had never seen before. 
He wondered at it, and for a moment a grisly 
thought crossed his mind that this was not 
life, but death — that he had "died in the fall, 
and the girl had followed in some manner ; 
but the heavy marline-spike still hung from 
his neck, and he was surely alive when he 
had placed it there. 

She was standing erect — her lithe figure 
swaying to the boat's motion — and pointing 
to leeward, while the moonlit face was now 
sweetened by the smile of a happy child. 
He stood up and looked where she pointed, 
but saw nothing, and seated himself to look 
at her. 

" See ! " she exclaimed, gleefully. " They 
have hauled out the spanker and are sheeting 
home the royal. I will never be married — 
I will never be married. He knew I was 
with you." 

Again he stood up and searched the sea 
to leeward. There was nothing in sight. 
"Unhinged," he thought, "by this night's 
trouble." " Freda," he said, gently, " please 
sit down. You may fall overboard." 

" I am not insane," she said, as though 
reading his thoughts ; and, smiling radiantly 
in his face, she obeyed him. 

" Do you know where we are ? " he asked, 
tentatively. " Are we in the track of ships?" 

" No," she answered, while her face took 
on the dreamy look again. " We are out of 
all the tracks. We shall not be picked up. 
We are due west from Ilio Island. I saw it 
at sundown broad on the starboard bow. The 
wind is due south. If you will pull in the 
of the sea we can reach it before 


trough .of.. tHe 



daylight. I am tired — so tired — and sleepy. 
Will you watch?" 

"Certainly; lie down in the stern sheets 
and sleep if you can." She curled up in her 
yellow oil-coat and slept through the night, 
while he pulled easily on the oars — not that 
he had full faith in her navigation, but 
to keep himself warm. The sea became 
smoother, and as the moon rose higher it 
attained a brightness almost equal to that of 
the sun, casting over the clear sky a deep 
blue tint that shaded indefinitely into the 
contrasting darkness extending from itself to 
the horizon. Late in the night he remem- 
bered the danger of sleeping in strong moon- 
light, and, arising softly to cover her face with 
his damp handkerchief, he found her looking 
at him. 

" We are almost there, John," she said ; 
" wake me when we arrive," and closed her 
eyes. He covered her fa!ce, and marvelling 
at her words looked ahead. He was within 
a half-mile of a sandy beach which bordered 
a wooded island. The sea was now like 
glass in its level smoothness, and the air was 
warm, and fragrant with the smell of flowers 
and foliage. He shipped the oars and pulled 
to the beach. As the boat grounded she 
arose, and he helped her ashore. 

The beach shone white under the moon- 
light, and dotting it were large shell-fish and 
moving crabs, which scuttled away from 
them. Bordering the beach were forest and 
undergrowth with interlacery of flowering 
vines. A ridge of rocks near by disclosed 
caves and hollows, some filled by the water 
of tinkling cascades. Oranges showed in 
the branches of trees, and cocoa-palms lifted 
their heads high in the distance. A small 
deer arose, looked at them, and lay down, 
while a rabbit inspected them from another 
direction, and began nibbling. 

"An earthly paradise, I should say," he 
observed, as he hauled the boat up the 
beach. " Plenty of food and water, at any 

" It is Ilio Island," she answered, with 
that same dreamy voice. " It is uninhabited 
and never visited." 

"But surely, Freda, something will come 
along and take us off." 

" No ; if I am taken off, I must be married, 
of course ; and I will never be married." 

" Who to, Freda ? Who must you marry 
if we are rescued ? " 

" The mate — Mr. Adams. Not you, John 
Owfen — not you. I do not like you." 

She was unbalanced, of course ; but the 
speech pained him immeasurably, and he 

made no answer. He looked away at the 
clean-cut horizon for a moment, and when 
he looked back she was close to him, with 
the infantile smile on her face — candour and 
sanity in her grey eyes. Involuntarily he 
extended his arms, and she nestled within 

" You will be married, Freda — you will 
be married, and to me." He held her tightly 
and kissed her lips ; and the kiss ended in a 
crashing sound, and a shock of pain in his 
whole body which expelled the breath from 
his lungs. The moonlit island, sandy beach, 
blue sea, and sky were swallowed in a blaze 
of light, which gave way to pitchy darkness, 
with rain on his face and whistling wind in 
his ears, while he clung with both arms, not 
to a girl, but to a hard, wet, and cold mizzen- 
topgallant yard whose iron jackstay had 
bumped him severely between the eyes. 
Below him, in the darkness, a scream rang 
out, followed by the roar of the mate : " Are 
you all right up there ? Want any help? " 

He had fallen four feet 

When he could speak he answered, " I'm 
all right, sir." And catching the royal foot- 
rope dangling from the end of the yard 
above him, he brought it to its place, passed 
the seizing, and finished furling the royal. 
But it was a long job ; his movements were 
uncertain, for every nerve in his body was 
jumping in its own inharmonious key. 

"What's the matter wi' you up there?" 
demanded the mate when he reached the 
deck ; and a yellow-clad figure drew near 
to listen. 

" It was nothing, sir ; I forgot about the 

" You're a bigger lunkhead than I thought. 
Go forward." 

He went, and when he came aft at four 
bells to take his trick at the wheel the girl 
was still on deck, standing near the com- 
panion-way, looking forward. The mate 
stood at the other side of the binnacle, 
looking at her, with one elbow resting on the 
house. There was just light enough from 
the cabin skylight for Owen to see the 
expression which came over his face as he 
watched the graceful figure balancing to the 
heave of the ship. It took on the same evil 
look which he had seen in his fall, while 
there was no mistaking the thought behind 
the gleam in his eyes. The mate looked up. 
— into Owen's face — and saw something 
there which he must have understood ; for 
he dropped his eyes on the compass, snarled 
out, " Keep her on the course ! " and stepped 

int0 i)«iM«IFf the dinghy ' 



lashed upside down on the house, hid him 
from view. 

The girl approached the man at the 

4£ I saw you fall, Mr. Owen," she said, in a 
trembling voice; u and I could not help 
Were you hurt much ? " 

wheel, where she patted the moving spokes, 
pretending to assist him in steering. 

" Miss Freda," said the officer, sternly, as 
he came round the comer of the house, 
" I must ask you plainly to let things alone. 
And another thing — please don't talk to the 
man at the wheel." 



" No, Miss Folsom," he answered, in a low, 
though not a steady, tone; "but I was sadly 

"I confess I was nervous— very nervous — 
when you went aloft," she said; "and I 
cleared away the life-buoy* Then, when you 
fell, it slipped out of my hand and went 
overboard. Mr. Adams scolded me. Wasn't 
it ridiculous? " There were tears and 
laughter in the speech. 

"Not at all," he said, gravely ; "it saved 
mv life— for which I thank you." 

"« How— why?" 

" Who in Sam Hill's been casting off these 


voice of 

gripe- lashings ?" growled the 

mate behind the dinghy. The girl tittered 

hysterical^ and stepped beside Owco all tbe 

u Will you please mind your own busi- 
ness ? " she almost screamed ; and then, crying 
and laughing together, " If you paid as much 
attention to your work as you do to — to- 
me, men needn't fall from aloft on account 
of rotten foot-ropes. T> 

The abashed officer went forward, grum- 
bling about "discipline "and u women aboard 
ship!" When he was well out of sight in the 
darkness the girl turned suddenly, passed 
both arms around Owen's neck, exerted the 
very slightest pressure, patted him playfully 
on the shoulder as she withdrew them, and 
sped down the companion-way* 

He steered a wild course during that 
u trick, "and well deserved the profane criticism 
which he re^h^dl&ioftlDthe mate. 


Mr. W. Heath Robinson and His Work, 

IF humour be the 
salt of life, the 
advent of a new 
humorist bearing 
fresh supplies of that 
condiment ought to 
be a matter of vital 
importance to the 

And Mr, William 
Heath Robinson's 
humour is of a rare 
sort. He is serious 
— as serious as 
Lewis Carroll. He 
believes in his 
jokes : these draw- 
ings which are now 
making not Eng- 
land alone but all 
Kurope laugh are 
not by any means 
dashed off at a 
white heat of 
jocosity, but are 
slowly evolved by a 
very earnest 



gentleman and 
painter, who is as 
much absorbed in 
his elaborate absur- 
dities as a Senior 
Wrangler might be 
in the differential 

In these days 
good draughtsmen 
are as plentiful as 
strawberries; but 
when their drawings 
are before you, the 
laugh, if it comes 
at all, follows a 
complete under- 
standing and appre- 
ciation of the 
legend It only 
needs half an eye 
to see that Mr + 
Heath Robinson's 
designs are 
intrinsically funny. 


— i jr-' J 


w hf,ath Robinson. 

UbU«5ME"D *1 'toVPtrCirU 


VoL XJCMVJ. — ^ 

,1 .» Original from 

SUGGESTION wWfciy*ltTISPIIi<:K ^^NlVfl^tTT^F^Itftl^^ 



.-. i 

.-. J<'S^ON 


Not least of the widespread interest Mr. 
Robinson has excited is the seeming abrupt- 
ness of his public appearance in the rok of 
humorist* Yet he has been illustrating books 
for years, from Rabelais and " Don Quixote ,? 
to such books for children as "Uncle Lubin/' 
Some of his sketches for Rabelais are here- 
with given, showing his matchless skill in 
delineating facL.1 character^ Goo gj e 

(l I suppose/ 1 he said to the writer, "I 
have been vvhat you call funny a great many 
years ; only I made the common mistake of 
dosing children with humour instead of giving 
it to 'grown ups*' You see, I hadn't then 
found out that children, although extremely 
humorous to others, have necessarily very 
little sense of humour of their own, hut 
are very, ven^iriep^feftifp^fiftct little |>eople, 




enthusiasm about everything connected 
with my profession, and this carried me 
smiling through the vast amount of 
plaster cast and antique drawing I was 
destined to do/' 

Somehow one finds it difficult, in 
looking about Mr. Robinson's studio 
and through his portfolio of inimitably 
droll sketches, to picture him drawing 
careful studies of Ilyssos and the frieze 
of the Parthenon, He began his train- 
ing at a suburban art school when about 
the age of sixteen, going through the 
ordinary course of instruction. 

" I gained there the usual prizes and 
passed the usual - exams/ or some of 
them," he added, modestly, As a 
matter of fact he was a particularly 
brilliant pupil, and one of his fellows 
predicted of him a glowing success as 
a Royal Academician. After a course 
of study at the British Museum, young 
Robinson secured the coveted R.A. 
Studentship, "After that," he observed, 
grimly, t( I could study more antique 



Rough Sketch for a Humuruu* Pictur*- 

A book for them, I feel, should take 
them most seriously. ' Struwwel- 
peter ' to a child is real earnest, 
and is consequently, I believe, the 
most successful book with children. 
The humour that it has is acci- 
dental, and is for us 'grown-ups' 

4 * How did I come to be an artist 
at all ? I can hardly answer, except 
that my development was gradual 
only. I suppose, too, the instinct 
was hereditary. At all events, my 
father was an artist and my grand- 
father was an artist* I don't believe 
I showed any great promise as a 
boy, although I was certainly fond 
of drawing, and, like most boys, 
drawing more from my fancy. I fear 
I was a poor copyist ; in fact, the 
ordinary school drawing lesson used 
to bore me as mueh as some of the 
other lessons* 

" I^ater, as a student, I was all 



M^^n'SteteSTi^ 1 






than ever. Nowa- 
days, they tell 
me, the student 
is rat required 
to study so much 
of the antique/ 
Otherwise, I 
should not won 
der if artists were 
someti m e s 
driven to be- 
c o in c comic 
d ra ughtsmen 
from sheer des- 
peration ! My 
refuge for a time 
was in landscape, 
and landscape 
painting is still 
a source of keen 
enjoyment to 

Forced at an 
early age to earn 
his own liveli- 
hood, Mr Robin- 
son's systematic 
art education 
ended on the 
day thai a firm 
of London put) 

k coMPi nncWfiginairror 


lisliers bought 
his first drawing 
for publication. 
To book illus- 
t r a t i o n he 
turned. Besides 
n u m e r o u s 
vol u m us for 
children, many 
of the classics 
have been em- 
bellished by his 
pencil, and at 
the present time 
he is engaged 
upon a series of 
drawings in 
colour illustra- 
tion — one of the 
great master- 
pieces of litera- 
ture— a repro- 
duction of which 
will appear this 
auiumn* This 
work will give the 
arli st an opportu- 
nity of displaying 
his powers as a 
colourist and de- 
corative painter. 



ever came into my head, without thinking 
whether or not it violated the canons of jpro- 
bability* My humour, I should say, has Seen 
subject to literary rather than artistic influefruvs, 
and in this way I possibly owe something to 
Lewis Carroll and W, S, Gilbert. 


i( I liked drawing for children. It 
was a relief to my mind, because I 
didn't feel it necessary to restrict 
niyself; I could just put down what- 



l: MISSUS HilNDOn ABO")JjT)T]*tl 

"Gradually I found that what was 
primarily meant to interest the children 
interested their elders a good deal 
more. If a sketch of mine was very 
extravagant the youngsters turned 
from it in incredulity, but I observed 
that the boredom of the child was 
directly in inverse ratio to the delight 
of his parent/' 

"Then that was really the begin 
ning of your humorous work as we 
know it now ?" 

" Yes ; the first of my serious 
drawings of a comic idea, intended 
for adults, appeared some three years 
ago in the Tatter. Please note that 
in my opinion a humorous artist 
may regard his work every bit as 
seriously as even a religious painter, 
I have, always tried to make my 

arm ft i iy"A l. v. nt i N k draWw9 lf MililS-Blis internally, so t 


4 6 










Bp permiMtton rf 


speak, as well as 
externally in its 
subject I try to 
convey as much 
as possible by the 
where wording is 
necessary, to 
make that as 
succinct as I can. 
I like a series— 
that is, a succes- 
sion of adven- 
tures happening 
to the same per- 
son—or ramifica- 
tions and appli- 
cations of the 
same idea, be- 
cause I find that 
this gives me the 
greatest chance 
to let myself go 
and bring all the 
drollery out of 
which the notion 

the art- 
of the 

w hose 
sketches will 
make a man roar 
with laughter, but 



aji«™0 H i*»<>/] two country poucemenA , Tfir ^teh. \o\\ see this in 









By j*rrtni**i»n yf "The 


is capable." 
Though Mr, 
Robinson be- 
lieves in boiling 
down the letter- 
press he believes 
in u piling up " 
the drawing, put- 
ting in all the 
accessories his 
fancy can supply, 
so that the re- 
sult heroines 
ludicrous from 
very excess of 
realism. This is 
a novel adapta- 
tion of 



such drawings as "The Gentle Art of Catch- 
ing Things/' " British Sports/ 1 and " The 
Wiles of Wily Willy," one of the first-named 
of which series so tickled the fancy of 
President Fallieres that he passed it round 
the table at an Elysee Palace luncheon, 

serious or heavy. Cynicism, I find, is par- 
ticularly unpopular. 

" What is my method of work ? Rather a 
plodding one. When a likely subject strikes 
me I jot it down, and afterwards draw it in 
outline, as if I were drawing for children or 


causing, we are told, many of the guests to 
nearly choke with laughter. Other series are 
M The Seven Ages of Man," "Exceptions That 
Prove the Rule," u Presence of Mind," and 
"The Descent of Man." 

" I think," says the artist, as we turn the 
portfolio of original sketches, " * The Descent 
of Man ' was least popular on account of its 
cynicism and its gruesomeness People want 
their humour to be as light as it can be, and 
for the time to be reminded of nothing 

for my own amusement The final drawing 
is usually a copy of this in wash, I don't 
deviate much, as you will see on comparison 
of the preliminary sketches with those that 
have been published." 

Opinions may, perhaps^ differ as to which 
is the funnier of the two — the original sketch, 
bearing all the marks of the inspiration of 
the moment (even though the moment be, in 
reality, a somewhat protracted one), or th«" 



But after having heard the artist's own theory 
and explanation one is bound to say there is 
something in it, and that Mr. Robinsons ideas 
gain by being elaborated as much as possible* 
Of course, we do not get very much of his 

It may be objected, also, that Mr, Robin- 
son's birds — from a nightingale to the 
common or garden hen -are singularly alike. 
In fact, he confesses to a "comic" bird — a 
creation of his own, which he regards as a 


splendid technique in the original sketches, 
such as that reproduced under the title, "An 
Eminent Birch st disguised as a rain-cloud 
studying the ways of the Umbrella Bird/* or 
11 A Student of Birdology disguised as a glow- 
worm studying the habits of the Nightjar," 
because the artist's forte technically is his 
landscape treatment, and here we have only 
an outline, and faint at that. 

kind of " property " to be introduced as 
often as possible — with the assurance that 
it will be found amusing. You will find this 
humorous fowl — generally plucked — cropping 
up unexpectedly in his designs until it has 
now won recognition in juvenile circles. One 
little miss of five who saw a plucked fowl 
for the first., time on the kitchen table ran 
to tell her mamma that one of Mr. Robinson's 




birds had flown in downstairs and gone to 
sleep ! 

It is not so noticeable — this lack of realistic 
accessories — in such a sketch as that called "A 
Missing Line Competition," where a passing 
balloonist is seen making off with the products 

theme, dwelling lovingly on each detail, so 
that, to use his own words, " I almost get 
to believe in it myself." 

Comic draughtsman though he is, Mr, 
Robinson has a very strong vein of pic- 
turesque sentiment in his composition, 

An example of Mr, H*?a\h Robinson's Com k- Sentimental Allegory. 
Itjt t^rminAwti of *' Th& Taller ." 

of a morning's dreary waiting on the part of 
four listless — and irresistibly droll — anglers* 
Very quaint and droll are some of the titles 
that greet the eye. Mr. Robinson seems 
almost to have invented a new species of 
humour in titles alone, as, for instance, 
"Tickling for the Bandicoot in New South 
Wales," l( Trapping Whelks on the Shores 
of the Caspian Sea," and sc forth. Having 
once got such a legend one can see how 
the artist brings out all the drollery of the 

Vol. XX IV i, — 7 

although he is careful, unless drawing Um 
children, to keep this strictly within bounds. 
One of the best of his sketches in this vein 
is a representation of Cupid, who, in his noc- 
turnal rambles, has shot a moon-struck loiterer 
fairly through the heart with one of his gold- 
tipped shafts, only to discover that he has 
wasted an arrow on a scarecrow. There is 
gentle satire in this allegory. The short- 
sighted loveged, we fear, shows a prankish 

Ftom a) 


[Ph ■'•;.■■■> '■ >V 




HE East Africa Protectorate is 
a country of the highest interest 
to the colonist, the traveller, 
or the sportsman. But the 
Kingdom of Uganda is a fairy 
tale You climb up a railway 
instead of a beanstalk, and at the end there 
is a wonderful new world. The scenery is 
different, the vegetation is different, the 
climate is different, and, most of all, the 
people are different from anything elsewhere 
to be seen in the whole range of Africa. 
Instead of the breezy uplands we enter a 
tropical garden, In place of naked, painted 
savages clashing their spears and gibbering in 
chorus to their tribal chiefs a complete and 
elaborate polity is presented. Under a 
dynastic King, a Parliament, and a powerful 
feudal system an amiable, clothed, polite, and 
intelligent race dwell together in an organized 
monarchy upon the rich domain between 
the Victoria and Albert Lakes. More 
than two hundred thousand natives are a hie 
to read and write. More than one hundred 

Ojpp-ijih^ 19a? F by W 

thousand have embraced the Christian fnith. 
there is a Court, there are Regents and 
Ministers and nobles, there is a regular 
system of native law and tribunals ; there is 
discipline, there is industry, there is culture, 
there is peace, In fact, I ask myself whether 
there is any other spot in the whole earth 
where the dreams and hopes of the negro- 
phi le, so often mocked by results and 
stubborn facts, have ever attained such a 
happy realization. 

Three separate infliR-nrus, r.i.h of (Ihtii 
powerful and benevolent, exercise control 
over the mass of the Baganda nation. First, 
the Imperial authority, secular, scientific, dis- 
interested, irresistible ; secondly, a native 
Government and feudal aristocracy corrected 
of their abuses, yet preserving their vitality ; 
and thirdly, missionary enterprise on an 
almost unequalled scale. Under the shelter 
of the British Mag, safe from external 
menace or internal .htroiU the child- King 
grows to a ttMi^^fSV^mfl r, rHsTructed maturity* 
SurrounclttllVb|Sini O&MlfitilGftN State, he 

install Spender Churchill, 



presides at the meetings of his council and 
Parliament, or worships in the huge thatched 
cathedral which has been reared on Nami- 
remhe Hill Fortified in their rights, but re- 
strained from tyrannical excess, and guided by 
an outside power, his feudatories exercise their 
proper functions. The people, relieved from 
the severities and confusions of times not 
long ago, are apt to learn and willing to obey. 
And among them with patient energy toils a 
large body of devoted Christian men of 
different nations, of different Churches; but a 
common charity, tending their spiritual needs, 
enlarging their social and moral conceptions, 
and advancing their education year by year. 

An elegance of manners springing from a 
naive simplicity of character pervades all 
classes. An elaborate ritual of friendly 
salutations relieves the monotony of the way- 
farer's journey. Submission without servility 
or loss of self-respect is accorded to con- 
stituted authority. The natives evince an 
eagerness to acquire knowledge and a very 
high observant and imitative faculty. And 
then Uganda is from end to end one beauti- 
ful garden, where the staple food of the 
people grows almost without labour, and 
where almost everything else can be grown 
better and easier than anywhere else. The 
planter from the best islands in the West 
Indies is astonished at the richness of the 
soil. Cotton grows everywhere. Rubber, 

fibre, hemp, cinnamon, cocoa, coffee, tea, 
coca, vanilla, oranges, lemons, pineapples are 
natural or thrive on introduction. As for our 
English garden products, brought in contact 
with the surface of Uganda they simply give 
one wild hound of efflorescence or fruition 
and break their hearts for joy P Does it not 
sound a paradise on earth ? Approach and 
consider it more closely. 

'Hie good ship Ckment Hill^ named after 
a well known African explorer, has carried 
us smoothly and prosperously across the 
northern corner of the Victoria Nyanza, and 
reaches the pier of Entebbe as the afternoon 
draws towards its close. The first impression 
that strikes the eye of the visitor fresh from 
Kavirondo is the spectacle of hundreds of 
natives all dressed in long clean white 
garments which they wear with dignity and 
ease. At the landing-place a sort of pavilion 
has been erected, and here come deputations 
from the Chamber of Commerce— a limited 
body of Europeans — from the Goanese com- 
munity, and from the numerous Indian colony 
of merchants. A tonga drawn by two mules 
takes me to Government House, and from a 
wide mosquito-proof veranda I am able to 
survey a truly delightful prospect The most 
beautiful plants and trees grow in profusion 
on all sides. Beyond a blaze of violet, 
purple, yellow, and crimson blossoms, and an 
expanse of level green lawns, the great blue 




5 2 


lake lies in all its beauty- The hills and 
islands on the horizon are just beginning to 
flush to the sunset. The air is soft and cool. 
Except that the picture actually looks more 
English in its character, one would imagine 
it was the Riviera- It must be too good to 
be true. 

It is too good to be true. One can hardly 
believe that such an attractive spot can be 
cursed with malignant attributes. Yet what 
is true of the East Africa Protectorate is 
even more true of Uganda. The contrast 
between appearance and reality is more 
striking and more harsh. Behind its glittering 
mask Entebbe wears a sinister aspect These 
smiling islands which adorn and diversify the 
scenery of the lake supported a few years ago 
a large population. To-day they are desolate. 
Every white man seems to feel a sense of 

There are many who advocate the abandon- 
ment of Entebbe as the administrative capital 
and the restoration of the seat of Govern- 
ment to Kampala. But the expense of trans- 
ferring public offices and buildings lately 
erected to another site is altogether beyond 
the slender resources and not among the 
most urgent needs of the Uganda Protector- 
ate. Great improvements have been effected 
recently in the sanitation of Entebbe. The 
bush and trees, which added so greatly to its 
picturesque appearance, have been ruthlessly 
cut down ; and with them, mirahile dkht \ have 
vanished the mosquito and the sleeping- 
sickness tsetse fly. Half a mile away on 
either side of the settlement are groves which 
it might easily be death to enter ; but the 
inhabited area is now quite clear. 

Besides, the general un healthiness of the 

FYtfni a J 



undefinable oppression. A cut will not heal j 
a scratch festers. In the third year of resi- 
dence even a small wound becomes a 
running sore. One day a man feels per- 
fectly well ; the next, for no apparent cause, 
he is prostrate with malaria, and with malaria 
of a peculiarly insistent kind, turning often 
in the third or fourth attack to black water 
fever. In the small European community at 
Entebbe there have been quite recently two 
suicides. Whether, as I have suggested in 
East Africa, it be the altitude, or the down- 
ward ray of the Equatorial sun, or the insects, 
or some more subtle cause, there seems to 
be a solemn veto placed upon the white 
man's permanent residence in these beautiful 

country so far as tbe European is concerned 
is not local to Entebbe. It is widely spread 
in slightly different degrees throughout the 
whole of Uganda ; and Kampala is certainly 
not exempt Finally, thrre is a reason of a 
different character which ought to impose 
a final bar on any return of the Imperial 
Government to the native city, Uganda is 
a native State. Much of our success in deal- 
ing with its population arises from the fact 
that we work through and by the native 
Government. And that Government could 
not fail to lose much, if not all, of its separate 
and natural identity if it were overwhelmed 
by the immediate proximity of the supreme 
Administration.- . r 




land, Entebbe certainly presents many remark- 
able evidences of progress. The slopes of the 
lake shore are covered with pretty villas, each 
standing in its own luxuriant garden. There 
is an excellent golf course, and a very bright 
and pleasant society. Guardian over all this 
stands the Sikh. There are two com [sanies 
of these soldiers, one at Entebbe and the 
other at Kampala, who, being entirely immune 
to local influences or all kinds, constitute what 
Mr. Gladstone used to call the "motor 
muscle " of Imperial authority. I have always 
admired the Sikh in India, both in his can- 
tonments and in the field. But somehow 
his graceful military figure and grave count e 

who take the decision will have incurred a 
responsibility which few would care to share 
with them. 

So far as human force is concerned, the 
British power in these regions is at present 
beyond challenge. No man can withstand it. 
But a new opponent has entered the lists and 
will not be denied. Uganda is defended by 
its insects. It would even seem that the 
arrival of the white man and the increased 
movement and activity which his presence 
has engendered have awakened these formid- 
able atoms to a realization of their powers of 
evil The dreaded Spirillum tick has begun to 
infest the roads like a tiny footpad, and scarcely 

/'.i.iV! 'I | 

TUB GOlfEBNOfc S LliOt'ARti. 

T Phoiuffrajih. 

nance under the turban, as he stands erect 
beside his rifle on guard over British interests 
six thousand miles from the Punjab, impresses 
the eye and the imagination with an added 
force. He is a picked volunteer from all 
the Sikh regiments, who delights in Uganda, 
thrives under its, to him, milder sun, lives on 
nothing, saves his doubled pay, and returns 
to India enriched and proud of his service 
across the sea. If at any time considerations 
of expense, or the desire to obtain a complete 
homogeneity in the military forces of the 
Protectorate, should lead to the disbandment 
or withdrawal of these two companies, those 

any precautions avail with certainty against him- 
Tliis tick is a dirty, drab coloured creature 
the size and shape of a small squashed pea* 
When he bites an infected person he does 
not contract the Spirillum fever himself, nor 
does he transmit it directly to other persons. 
By a peculiarly malevolent provision of Nature 
this power is exercised not by him but by his 
descendants, who are numbered in hundreds. 
So the poison spreads in an incalculable pro- 
gression. Although this fever is not fatal, it 
is exceptionally painful in its course and dis- 
tressing in h^'cwWeqfilfeHlfes. There are five 
or s i x L£y j M ER'id 3ltH c£i|u WrkishtkiA^hlt :i c:k 5 of fever, 



from a) 


[ PhaiVffraiA. 

in which the temperature of the victim may 
rise even to 107 degrees ; and afterwards the 
eyes and hearing are temporarily affected by 
a kind of facial paralysis, Road after road 
has been declared infected by this scourge, 
and officer after officer struck down as he 
moves on duty from place to place* The 
only sure preventive seems to be the destruc- 
tion of all old grass- huts and camping grounds, 
and the erection along the roads of a regular 
system of stone-built, properly-maintained 
and disinfected rest-houses, in which the 
traveller may take refuge from the lurking 
peril And this will have to be done. 

But a far more terrible shadow darkens 
the Uganda Protectorate. In July, iuor, a 
doctor of the Church Missionary Society 
Hospital at Kampala noticed eight cases of 
a mysterious disease* Six months later he 
reported that over two hundred natives had 
died of it in the Island of Buvuma, and 
that thousands appeared to be infected, 
The pestilence swiftly spread through all the 
districts of the lake shore, and the mortality 
was appalling. No one could tell where it 
had come from or what it was caused by. 
It resisted every kind of treatment and 
appeared to be universally fatal. Scientific 
inquiries of various kinds were immediately 
set on foot, but for a long time no results 
were obtained, and meanwhile the disease 
ran along the coasts and islands of the great 
lake like lire in a high wind. By the middle 
of iyo2 the reported deaths from Trypano- 

somiasis ; or ** sleeping sickness" as it has 
come to be called, numbered over thirty 
thousand- It was still spreading rapidly 
upon all sides, and no clue whatever to its 
treatment or prevention had been obtained. 
It seemed certain that the entire population 
of the districts affected was doomed. 

On April 28th, 1903, Colonel Bruce, whose 
services had been obtained for the investiga- 
tion of "sleeping sickness ?J through the instru- 
mentality of the Royal Society, announced 
that he considered the disease to be due to a 
kind of trypan osome, conveyed from one 
person to another by the bite of a species of 
t se t se fl y ( : al 1 e d G/oss/fta palpt f/m; 1 1 i s t h e o r y 
was strongly supported by the fact that the 
disease appeared to be confined to the 
localities infested by the fly. The fly-belt 
also could be defined with precision, and was 
rarely found to extend more than a mile or 
two from water. The news that Europeans 
could no longer consider themselves immune 
from the infection caused, as might be 
imagined, much consternation in the white 
community. Nearly everybody had been 
bitten by tsetses at one time or another, but 
whether by this particular species when 
actually infected remained in suspense. 
Moreover, tsetse flies abounded in such 
numbers on all parts of the lake shore that 
their wholesale destruction seemed quite im- 
possible. What then ? 

For a tinjiftih^lf^lj-i Bruee's discovery 

almos bfmteMfPrafe:^f id restrictive 



measures. The scourge fell unchecked By 
the end of 1903 the reported deaths num- 
bered over ninety thousand, and the lake 
.shores were becoming fast depopulated. 
Whole villages were completely exterminated, 
and great tracts in Usoga, which had formerly 
been famed for their high state of cultivation, 
relapsed into forests* The weakness of the 
victims and the terror or apathy of the sur- 
vivors permitted a sudden increase in 
the number of leopards, and these fierce 
animals preyed with daring and impunity 
upon the living, the dying, and the dead. 

Further investigations, which were anxiously 
pushed on in many directions, revealed Lhe 
existence of the tsetse fly over widespread 
areas. In the interior of Usoga, on the banks 
of many rivers, in swamps on the shores of the 
Albert Lake and Lake Albert Edward, these 
swarming emissaries of death were found to be 
awaiting their message. All that was needed to 

Any decrease in the mortality in any 
district up to the present lime is due, not 
to any diminution in the virulence of the 
disease, but simply to the reduction of 
possible victims, owing to the extermination 
of the inhabitants. Buvuma, a few years 
ago one of the most prosperous ot all the 
islands, contains fewer than fourteen thousand 
out of thirty thousand. Some ol the islands 
in the Sesse group have lost every soul, while 
in others a few moribund natives, crawling 
about in the last stages of the disease, are all 
that are left to represent a once teeming 

" It might have been expected," writes 
Mr* Hesketh Bel!, the Governor of Uganda, 
to whom I am indebted for much valuable 
information on this subject, "that, even 
though the negroes showed inability to grasp 
the theory of the transmission of disease by 
the agency of insects, the undeniable deadli- 

From a} 


\ PAotoffrafA. 

arm them with their fatal power was the arrival 
of some person infected with the microbe, 
lhe Albert shores and several parts of the 
Upper Nile soon became new centres of pesti- 
lence, Thousands of deaths occurred in Un- 
yoro. By the end of [905 considerably more 
than two hundred thousand persons had 
perished in the plague-stricken regions, Qui 
of a papulation in those regions which amid 
not have exceeded three hundred thousand. 

ness of the countries bordering on the lake 
shore would have induced them to flee from 
the stricken land and to have sought in 
the healthier districts inland a refuge from 
the pestilence that was slaying them by 
thousands. An extraordinary fatalism, how- 
ever, seems to have paralyzed the natives, 
and, while deploring the sadness of their fate, 
they appear /to; Jmyu ACX-ented death almost 

^ : l y -r.-llL II Ml I IUI It 

with ar" if *" ? 




The police of science, although arrived 
late on the scene of the tragedy, were now 
following many converging clues, 'lhera- 
peutic investigation into the treatment and 
origin of the disease, entomological examina- 
tion of the resorts, habits, dangers, and life- 
history of the fly, and administrative measures 
of drastic authority are now being driven 
sternly forward. Knowledge has accumu- 
lated. Fighting the sleeping sickness is like 
laying a vampire. To make the spell work, 
five separate conditions must be present — 
water, bushes, trees, the tsetse fly {Glossina 
patpalis\ and one infected person. Remove 
any one of these and the curse is lifted. But 
let them all be conjoined, and the sure 
destruction of every human being in the 
district is only a matter of time. 

The Government of Uganda is now pur- 
suing a policy based on the appreciation of 
these facts. Wherever it is necessary to 
come to the lake shores, as at Entebbe 
Munyonyo, Ripon Falls, Fajao, etc., the 
tsetse fly is banished or eliminated by cut- 
ting down the trees, clearing away the bush, 
and planting in its place the vigorous, rapid 
growing citronella grass, which, once firmly 
established, holds its own against invading 
vegetation. Wherever it is not possible to 
clear the shores of tsetse flies, they must 
be cleared of inhabitants. And the extra- 
ordinary operation of moving entire popu- 
lations from their old homes to new places 
— often against their will — has been actually 
accomplished within the last year by a 
combined dead -lift effort of these three 
tremendous forces of Government which 
regulate from such different points of view 
the lives and liberties of the Baganda. 

It does not follow that the lake shores will 
have to be abandoned for ever. In a very 
short -time — some say two days, some eleven 
hours — the infected tsetse is free from poison 
and can no longer communicate it ; and once 
the disease has been eradicated from the 
population, healthy people might return and 
be bitten with impunity. Nor, on the other 
hand, can we hope, unless some cure capable 
of being applied on a large scale can 
be perfected, that the mortality in the 
immediate future will sensibly diminish. For 
there are many thousands of persons still 
affected, and for these segregation, nursing, 
and compassion comprise the present re- 
sources of civilization. 

One thing is, however, above all things 
important. There must be no losing heart. 
At any moment the researches which are being 

conducted in so many laboratories, and in 
which Professor Koch has taken a leading 
part, may produce an absolute therapeutic 
remedy. By the administrative measures now 
vigorously enforced it is believed that the 
fatal contact between infected persons and 
uninfected flies, between infected flies and 
uninfected persons, will have been effectively 
broken. We cannot fail to learn more of the 
tsetse. The humble black horse-fly, indis- 
tinguishable to the casual observer from 
harmless types, except that his wings are 
folded neatly like a pair of shut scissors, 
instead of splaying out on either side of his 
back, is now under a bright, searching, and 
pitiless eye. Who are his enemies ? What 
are his dangers ? What conditions are 
essential to his existence ? What conditions 
are fatal or inimical? International Com- 
missions discuss him round green tables, 
grave men peer patiently at him through 
microscopes, active officers scour Central 
Africa to plot him out on charts. A fine- 
spun net is being woven remorselessly around 
him. And may not man find allies in this 
strange implacable warfare ? There are fishes 
which destroy mosquitoes, there are birds 
which prey upon flies, there are plants whose 
scent or presence is abhorrent or injurious to 
particular forms of insect life. In what 
places and for how long will the tsetse 
continue to fly as he is wont over the 
smooth, gleaming water, just above the reeds 
and bushes, just below the branches of the 
overhanging trees? Glossina palpalis contra 
tnuttdum I 

I have not sought to conceal the perils in 
describing the riches and the beauties of 
Uganda. The harsh contrasts of the land, 
its noble potentialities, its hideous diseases, 
its fecundity alike of life and death, are 
capable of being illustrated by many more 
facts and examples than I can here set down. 
But what an obligation, what a sacred duty 
is imposed upon Great Britain to enter the 
lists in person and to shield this trustful, 
docile, intelligent Baganda race from dangers 
which, whatever their cause, have synchro- 
nized with our arrival in their midst ! And, 
meanwhile, let us be sure that order and 
science will conquer, and that in the end 
John Bull will be really master in his 
curious garden of sunshine and deadly 

{ To be continued^ NIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 


^. i.L^_l3 




CAN HARTLEY'S letter to 

her father was not so easy 
to write as she had imagined. 
She tore up draft after draft, 
and at last, in despair, wrote 
him a brief and dutiful 
epistle, informing hi in that she had changed 
her name to Trimhlett, She added — in a 
postscript— that she expected he would be 
surprised ; and, having finished her task, sat 
trying to decide whether to commit it to the 
post or the flames. 

It was a tjuestion that occupied her all the 
evening, and the following morning found 
her still undecided. It was not until the 
afternoon, when a letter came from Captain 
Trimhlett, declining in violent terms and at 
great length to he a party to her scheme, 
that she made up her mind. The informa- 
tion that he had been recalled to Salthaven 
on the day following only served to strengthen 
her resolution, and it was with a feeling of 
almost pious thankfulness that she realized 

Vol. xxsvL— 8* Copyright , 1908, \y W fc W. Jacob*, 

the advantages of such an arrangement. She 
went out and posted her letter to her father, 
and then, with a mind at ease, wrote a nice 
letter to Captain Trimblett, full of apologies 
for her precipitancy, and regretting that he 
had not informed her before of what she 
called his change of mind. She added that, 
after mature deliberation, she had decided 
not to return to Salthaven until after he had 

Captain Trimblett got the letter ' next 
morning and, hurrying off to the nearest 
post-office, filled up a telegraph-form with a 
few incisive words dashed off at white heat, 
He destroyed six forms before he had arrived 
at what he considered a happy mean 
between strength and propriety, and then at 
the lady clerics earnest request altered one of 
the words of the seventh. A few hours later 
he was on his way to Salthaven. 

It was late when he arrived and the office 
of Vyner and Son was closed. He went on 
to Laurel Lodge, and, after knocking and 
ringing for soirj£ time in vain, walked back 

in th^iercE^^K^MK H IG A N 



to the town and went on board his ship. The 
new crew had not yet been signed on, and 
Mr. Walters, the only man aboard, was cut 
short in his expressions of pleasure at the 
captain's return and sent ashore for pro- 

"Time you went to sea again," said the 
captain a little later as the boatswain went on 
his hands and knees to recover the pieces of 
a plate he had dropped. 

" I wish I'd gone a month ago, sir," said 
Mr. Walters. "Shore's no place for a 

The captain grunted, and turning suddenly 
surprised the eye of Mr. Walters fixed upon 
him with an odd, puzzled expression that 
he had noticed before that evening. Mr. 
Walters, caught in the act, ducked from 
sight, and recovered a crumb that was trying 
to pass itself off as a piece of china. 

"What are you staring at me for?" 
demanded the captain. 

" Me, sir? " said the boatswain. " I wasn't 
staring, sir." 

He rose with his hands full of pieces and 
retreated to the door. Almost against his 
will he stole another glance at the captain 
and blinked hastily at the gaze that met his 

" If I've got a smut on my nose " 

began the captain, ferociously. 

" No, sir," said Mr. Walters, disappearing. 

" Come here ! " roared the other. 

The boatswain came back reluctantly. 

" If I catch you making those faces at me 
again," said the captain, whom the events of 
the last day or two had reduced to a state of 
chronic ill-temper, "I'll— I'll " 

" Yessir," said Mr. Walters, cheerfully. 

" I " He disappeared again, but his voice 

came floating down the companion-ladder. 
" I 'ope — you'll accept — my good — wishes." 

Captain Trimblett started as though he 
had been stung, and his temperature rose 
to as near boiling-point as science and the 
human mechanism will allow. Twice he 
opened his mouth to bellow the boatswain 
back again, and twice his courage failed him. 
He sat a picture of wrathful consternation 
until, his gaze falling on a bottle of beer, he 
emptied it with great rapidity, and pushing 
his plate away and lighting his pipe sat trying 
to read a harmless meaning into Mr. Walters's 
infernal congratulations. 

He rose early next morning and set off for 
Laurel Lodge, a prey to gloom, which the 
furtive glances of Mr. Walters had done 
nothing to dissipate. Hartley was still in 
his bedroom when he arrived, but Rosa 

showed him into the dining-room, and, having 
placed a chair, sped lightly upstairs. 

" I've told him," she said, returning in a 
breathless condition and smiling at him. 

The captain scowled at her. 

"And he says he'll be down in a minute." 

"Very good," said the captain, with a nod 
of dismissal. 

Miss Jelks went as far as the sideboard, 
and, taking out a tablecloth, proceeded to 
spread the table, regarding the captain with 
unaffected interest as she worked. 

" He ain't been very well the last day or 
two," she said, blandly. 

The captain ignored her. 

"Seems to have something on his mind," 
continued Miss Jelks, with a toss of her head, 
as she placed the sugar-bowl and other 
articles on the table. 

The captain regarded her steadily for a 
moment, and then, turning, took up a news- 

" I should think he never was what you'd 
call a strong man," murmured Miss Jelks. 
" He ain't got the look of it." 

The captain's temper got the better of him. 
" Who are you talking about ? " he demanded, 
turning sharply. 

Miss Jelks's eyes shone, but there was no 
hurry, and she smoothed down a corner of 
the tablecloth before replying. 

" Your father-in-law, sir," she said, with a 
faint air of surprise. 

Captain Trimblett turned hastily to his 
paper again, but despite his utmost efforts a 
faint wheezing noise escaped him and fell 
like soft music on the ears of Miss Jelks. In 
the hope that it might be repeated, or that 
manifestations more gratifying still might be 
vouchsafed to her, she lingered over her task 
and coughed in an aggressive fashion at 

She was still busy when Hartley came 
downstairs, and, stopping for a moment at 
the doorway, stood regarding the captain with 
a look of timid disapproval. The latter rose 
and, with a significant glance in the direction 
of Rosa, shook hands and made a remark 
about the weather. 

"When did you return?" inquired Hartley, 
trying to speak easily. 

" Last night," said the other. " I came on 
here, but you were out." 

Hartley nodded, and they sat eyeing each 
other uneasily and waiting for the industrious 
Rosa to go. The captain got tired first, and 
throwing open the French windows slipped 
out into the garden and motioned to Hartley 
to follow. 




" Joan wrote to you," he said, abruptly, as 
soon as they were out of earshot. 

" Yes," said the other, stiffly. 

" Understand, it wasn't my fault," said the 
captain, warmly. " I wash my hands of it. 
I told her not to. 

" Indeed ! " said Hartley, with a faint 
attempt at sarcasm. " It was no concern 
of mine, of course." 

The captain turned on him sharply, and- 
for a moment scathing words hung trembling 
on his lips. He controlled himself by an effort. 

" She wrote to you," he said, slowly, " and 
instead of waiting to see me, or communi- 
cating with me, you spread the news all over 
the place." 

" Nothing of the kind," said Hartley. " As 
a matter of fact, it's not a thing I am anxious 
to talk about. Up to the present I have 
only told Rosa." 

" Only ! " repeated the choking captain. 
"Only! Only told Rosa! Where was the 
town-crier? What in the name of common 
sense did you want to tell her for?" 

" She would have to be told sooner or 
later," said Hartley, staring at him, "and it* 
seemed to me better to tell her before Joan 
came home. I thought Joan would prefer 
it; and if you had heard Rosa's comments I 
think that you'd agree I was right." 

The captain scarcely listened. " Well, 
it's all over Salthaven by now," he said, 

He seated himself on the bench with his 
hands hanging loosely between his knees, 
and tried to think. In any case he saw him- 
self held up to ridicule, and he had a strong 
feeling that to tell the truth now would pre- 
cipitate a crisis between Vyner and his chief 
clerk. The former would probably make a 
fairly accurate guess at the circumstances 
responsible for the rumour, and act accord- 
ingly. He glanced at Hartley standing awk- 
wardly before him, and, not without a sense 
of self-sacrifice, resolved to accept the 

" Yes ; Rosa had to be told," he said, 
philosophically. " Fate again ; you can't 
avoid it." 

Hartley took a turn or two up and down 
the path. 

"The news came on me like a — like a 
thunderbolt," he said, pausing in front of the 
captain. "I hadn't the slightest idea of 
such a thing, and if I say what I think " 

" Don't ! " interrupted the captain, warmly. 
" What's the good ? " 

" When were you married ? " inquired the 
other. " Where were you married ? " 

" Joan made all the arrangements," said the 
captain, rising hastily. "Ask her." 

" But " said the astonished Hartley. 

"Ask her," repeated the captain, walking 
towards the house and flinging the words 
over his shoulder. " I'm sick of it." 

He led the way into the dining-room and, 
at the other's invitation, took a seat at the 
break fast- table, and sat wondering darkly 
how he was to get through the two days 
before he sailed. Hartley, ill at ease, poured 
him out a cup of coffee and called his atten- 
tion to the bacon-dish. 

" I can't help thinking," he said, as the 
captain helped himself and then pushed the 
dish towards him — " I can't help thinking 
that there is something behind all this ; that 
there is some reason for it that I don't quite 

The captain started. " Never mind," he 
said, with gruff kindness. 

" But I do mind," persisted the other. " I 
have got an idea that it has been done for 
the benefit — if you can call it that — of a third 

The captain eyed him with benevolent 
concern. " Nonsense," he said, uneasily. 
" Nothing of the kind. We never thought of 

" I wasn't thinking of myself," said Hartley, 
staring ; " but I know that Joan was uneasy 
about you, although she pretended to laugh 
at it. I feel sure in my own mind that she 
has done this to save you from Mrs. Chinnery. 
If it hadn't " 

He stopped suddenly as the captain, 
uttering a strange gasping noise, rose and 
stood over him. For a second or two the 
captain stood struggling for speech, then, 
stepping back with a suddenness that over- 
turned his chair, he grabbed his cap from 
the sideboard and dashed out of the house. 
The amazed Mr. Hartley ran to the window 
and, with some uneasiness, saw his old 
friend pelting along at the rate of a good six 
miles an hour. 

Breathing somewhat rapidly from his exer- 
tions, the captain moderated his pace after 
the first hundred yards, and went on his way 
in a state of mind pretty evenly divided 
between wrath and self-pity. He walked in 
thought with his eyes fixed on the ground, 
and glancing up, too late to avoid him, saw 
the harbour-master approaching. 

Captain Trimblett, composing his features 
to something as near his normal expression 
as the time at his disposal would allow, gave 
a brief nod and would have passed on. He 
found hisppraT,yl^|weyerij blocked by sixteen 



stone of harbour-master, while a big, red, 
clean-shaven face smiled at him reproachfully* 

n How are you? if said Trimblett, jerkily. 

The harbour-master, who was a man of 
few words, made no reply. He drew back a 

him almost with cordiality, and, for the 
second time in his experience, extended a 
big white hand for him to shake. 

u I have heard the news> captain, 1 ' he said, 
in extenuation* 


little and, regarding the captain with smiling 
interest, rolled his head slowly from side to 

"Well ! Well ! Well ! " he said at last. 

Captain Trimblett drew himself up and 
regarded him with a glance the austerity of 
which would have made most men quail, It 
affected the harbour-master otherwise. 

" C— t;k ! ?1 he said, waggishly, and drove a 
forefinger like a petrified sausage into the 
other's ribs, The assault was almost painful, 
and T before the captain could recover, the 
harbour master, having exhausted his stock 
of witticisms, both verbal and physical, 
passed on highly pleased with himself. 

It was only a sample of what the day 
held in store for the captain, and before it 
was half over he was reduced to a condition 
of raging impotence. The staff of Vyner 
and Son turned on their stools as one man 
as he entered the room, and regarded him 
opened-eyed for the short time that he 
remained there. Mr, Vyner, senior, greeted 

Captain Trimblett bowed, and in response 
to an expression of good wishes for his future 
welfare managed to thank him. He made 
his escape as soon as possible, and, meeiing 
Robert Vyner on the stairs, got a fleeting 
glance and a nod which just admitted the 
fact of his existence. 

The most popular man in Salthaven for 
the time being, he spent the best part of the 
day on board his ship, heedless of the fact 
that numerous acquaintances were scouring 
the town in quest of him, One or two hardy 
spirits even ventured on board, and, leaving 
with some haste, bemoaned as they went the 
change wrought by matrimony in u hitherto 
amiable and civil-spoken mariner. 

The one drop of sweetness in his cup was 
the news that Mrs. Chinnery was away from 
home for a few days, and after carefully recon- 
noitring from the bridge of the Indian ChieJ 
that evening he set off to visit his lodgings. 

He reached._Xra.nqYy 1 .Y^ e unmo ' cstccl , atul i 
entering t he jiSSse w^! ?! .ra^er exaggerated 




air of unconcern, nodded to Mr. Truefitt, who 
was standing on the hearthrug smoking, and 
hung up his cap. Mr. Truefitt, after a short 
pause, shook hands with him. 

" She's away," he said, in a deep voice. 

" She ? Who ? " faltered the captain. 

"Susanna," replied Mr. Truefitt, in a 
deeper voice still. 

The captain coughed and, selecting a chair 
with great care, slowly seated himself. 

" She left you her best wishes," continued 
Mr. Truefitt, still standing, and still regarding 
him with an air of severe disapproval. 

" Much obliged," murmured tKe captain. 

"She would do it," added Mr. Truefitt, 
crossing to the window and staring out at 
the road with his back to the captain. " And 
she said something about a silver-plated 
butter-dish ; but in the circumstances I said 
1 No.' Miss Willett thought so too." 

" How is Miss Willett ? " inquired the 
captain, anxious to change the subject. 

" All things considered, she's better than 
might be expected," replied Mr. Truefitt, 

Captain Trimblett said that he was glad 
to hear it, and, finding the silence becoming 
oppressive, inquired affectionately concerning 
the health of Mrs. Willett, and learned to his 
discomfort that she was in the same enig- 
matical condition as her daughter. 

"And my marriage is as far off as ever," 
concluded Mr. Truefitt. "Some people 
seem to be able to get married as often as 
they please, and others can't get married at 

" It's all fate," said the captain, slowly ; 
"it's all arranged for us." 

Mr. Truefitt turned and his colour rose. 

" Your little affair was arranged for you, I 
suppose ? " he said, sharply. 

" It was," said the captain, with startling 

Mr. Truefitt, who was lighting his pipe, 
looked up at him from lowered brows, and 
then, crossing to the door, took his pipe down 
the garden to the summer-house. 

"This time to-morrow night," said Mr. 
Walters, as he slowly paced a country lane 
with Miss Jelks clinging to his arm, " I shall 
be at sea." 

Miss Jelks squeezed his arm and gave vent 
to a gentle sigh. " Two years'll soon slip 
away," she remarked. " It's wonderful how 
time flies. How much is twice three hundred 
and sixty-five ? " 

"And you mind you behave yourself," said 

the boatswain, hastily. " Remember your 
promise, mind." 

" Of course I will," said Rosa, carelessly. 

"You've promised not to 'ave your evening 
out till I come back," the boatswain reminded 
her; "week-days and Sundays both. And it 
oughtn't to be no 'ardship to you. Gals 
wot's going to be married don't want to go 
gadding about." 

" Of course they don't," said Rosa. " I 
shouldn't enjoy being out without you neither. 
And I can get all the fresh air I want in the 

" And cleaning the winders," said the 
thoughtful boatswain. 

Miss Jelks, who held to a firm and con- 
venient belief in the likeness between 
promises and pie - crusts, smiled cheer- 

" Unless I happen to be sent on an errand 
I sha'n't put my nose outside the front gate," 
she declared. 

" You've passed your word," said Mr. 
Walters, slowly, " and that's good enough for 
me ; besides which I've got a certain party 
wot's promised to keep 'is eye on you and let 
me know if you don't keep to it." 

" Eh ? " said the startled Rosa " Who is 

"Never you mind who it is," said Mr. 
Walters, judicially. " It's better for you not 
to know, then you can't dodge 'im. He can 
keep his eye on you, but there's no necessity 
for you to keep your eye on 'im. I don't 
mind wot he does." 

Miss Jelks maintained her temper with 
some difficulty ; but the absolute necessity of 
discovering the identity of the person referred 
to by Mr. Walters, if she was to have any 
recreation at all during the next two years, 
helped her. 

" He'll have an easy job of it," she said, 
at last, with a toss of her head. 

"That's just wot I told 'im," said the 
boatswain. " He didn't want to take the job 
on at first, but I p'inted out that if you behaved 
yourself and kept your promise he'd 'ave 
nothing to do ; and likewise, if you didn't, it 
was only right as 'ow I should know. Besides 
which I gave 'im a couple o' carved peach 
stones and a war-club that used to belong to 
a Sandwich Islander, and took me pretty near 
a week to make." 

Miss Jelks looked up at him sideways. 
" Be a bit of all right if he comes making up 
to me himself," she said, with a giggle. " I 
wonder whether he'd tell you that ? " 

"He won't -da I that.'.' said the boatswain, 

with ^fflwb^HeHiGAff e ' s much to ° 



well - behaved, 'sides which he ain't old " Me?" said the boatswain, regarding her 

enough/' with honest amazement. u I don't want no 

Miss Jelks tore her arm away. "You've watching. Men don't. 1 ' 

never been and set that old fashioned little "In — deed!" said Miss Jelks, "and why 

shrimp Bassett on to watch me?" she said, not ? " 

shrilly. "They don't like it," said Mr. Walters, 

"Never you mind who it is," growled the simply, 

discomfited boatswain. " It's got nothing to Miss Jelks released her arm again, and for 
do with you. All you've got to know is this : 

any time 'e sees you out — this party I'm talk- ^ 

ing of— he's going to log it. He calls it j t 

. ■ 


keeping a dairy, but it comes to the tame 

" I know what I call it," said the offended 
maiden, "and if I catch that little horror 
spying on me he'll remember it/ 

" He can't spy on you if you ain't out/* 
said the boatswain. "That's wot I told 'im ; 
and when I said as you'd promised he saw as 
*ow it would be all right. I'm going to try 
and bring him 'ome a shark's tooth." 

" Goin' to make it ? n inquired Rosa, with 
a sniff". " And might I ask," she inquired, 
as the amorous boatswain took her arm again, 
" might I ask who is going to watch you ? " 

some time they walked on opposite sides of 
the lane. Her temper rase rapidly, and at 
last, tearing off her glove, she drew the 
ring from her finger and handed it to the 

" There you are ! H she exclaimed, "Take 

Mr. Walters took it and, after a vain 
attempt to place it on his little finger, put 
it in his waistcoat - pocket and walked on 

" We're not engaged now>" explained Rosa, 

"Aye, aye/ 3 s^d the boatswain, cheerfully, 

* 0nl tlffi»SBrm)F MICHIGAN 



44 Nothing of the kind," said Rosa. " I 
sha'n't have nothing more to do with you. 
You'd better tell Bassett." 

" What for ? " demanded the other. 

"What for?" repeated Rosa. "Why, 
there's no use him watching me now." 

"Why not?" demanded Mr. Walters. 

Miss Jelks caught her breath impatiently. 
"Because it's got nothing to do with you 
what I do now," she said, sharply. " I can 
go out with who I like." 

" Ho ! " said the glaring Mr. Walters. 
"Ho! Can you? So that's your little 

game, is it? Here " He fumbled in 

his pocket and, producing the ring, caught 
Miss Jelks's hand in a grip that made her 
wince, and proceeded to push it on her little 
finger. " Now you behave yourself, else next 
time I'll take it back for good." 

Miss Jelks remonstrated, but in vain. 
The boatswain passed his left arm about 
her waist, and when she became too fluent 
increased the pressure until she gasped for 
breath. Much impressed by these signs of 
affection she began to yield, and, leaning 
her head against his shoulder, voluntarily 
renewed her vows of seclusion. 

She went down to the harbour next day 
to see him off, and stood watching with much 
interest the bustle on deck and the prominent 
share borne by her masterful admirer. To her 
thinking, Captain Trimblett, stiff and sturdy 
on the bridge, played but a secondary part. 
She sent the boatswain little signals of 
approval and regard, a proceeding which was 
the cause of much subsequent trouble to a 
newly-joined A.B. who misunderstood their 
destination. The warps were thrown off, a 
bell clanged in the engine-room, the screw 
revolved, and a gradually-widening piece of 
water appeared between the steamer and the 
quay. Men on board suspended work for a 
moment for a last gaze ashore, and no fewer 
than six unfortunates responded ardently to 
the fluttering of her handkerchief. She stood 
watching until the steamer had disappeared 
round a bend in the river, and then, with a 
sense of desolation and a holiday feeling for 
which there was no outlet, walked slowly home. 

She broke her promise to the boatswain 
the following evening. For one thing, it was 
her "evening out," and for another she felt 
that the sooner the Bassett nuisance was 
stopped, the better it would be for all con- 
cerned. If the youth failed to see her she 
was the gainer to the extent of an evening in 
the open air, and if he did not she had 
an idea that the emergency would not find 
her unprepared. 

by LiOOgle 

She walked down to the town first and 
spent some time in front of the shop-windows. 
Tiring of this she proceeded to the harbour 
and inspected the shipping, and then with 
the feeling strong upon her that Bassett was, 
after all, to provide the major part of the 
evening's entertainment, she walked slowly 
to the small street in which he lived, and 
taking up a position nearly opposite his house 
paced slowly to and fro with the air of one 
keeping an appointment She was pleased 
to observe, after a time, a slight movement of 
the curtains opposite, and, satisfied that she 
had attained her ends, walked off. The 
sound of a street door closing saved her the 
necessity of looking round. 

At first she strolled slowly through the 
streets, but presently, increasing her pace, 
resolved to take the lad for a country walk. 
At Tranquil Vale she paused to tie up 
her boot-lace, and, satisfying herself that 
Bassett was still in pursuit, set off again. 

She went on a couple of miles farther, until 
turning the sharp corner of a lane she took a 
seat on the trunk of a tree that lay by the 
side and waited for him to come up. She 
heard his footsteps coming nearer and nearer, 
and with a satisfied smile noted that he had 
quickened his pace. He came round the 
corner at the rate of over four miles an hour, 
and, coming suddenly upon her, was unable 
to repress a slight exclamation of surprise. 
The check was but momentary, and he was 
already passing on when the voice of Miss 
Jelks, uplifted in sorrow, brought him to a 

" Oh, Master Bassett," she cried, " I am 
surprised ! I couldn't have believed it of 

Bassett, squeezing his hands together, stood 
eyeing her nervously. 

" And you so quiet, too," continued Rosa ; 
" but there, you quiet ones are always the 

The boy, peering at her through his 
spectacles, made no reply. 

"The idea of a boy your age falling in 
love with tne" said Rosa, modestly lowering 
her gaze. 

" What I " squeaked the astonished Bassett, 
hardly able to believe his ears. 

" Falling in love and dogging my foot- 
steps," said Rosa, with relish, " and standing 
there looking at me as though you could 
eat me." 

"You must be mad," said Bassett, in a 
trembling voice. " Stark staring mad." 

" Don't make it worse," said Rosa, kindly. 
" I suppose you can t help it, and ought to 


6 4 


be pitied for it really. Now I know why it 
was you winked at me when you came to the 
house the other day," 

"Winked!" gasped the horrified youth. 

" I thought it was weakness of sight at the 
time/' said the girl, " but I see my mistake 
now. I am sorry fur you, bTit it can never 
be. I am another's." 

Bassett, utterly bereft of speech, stood eye- 
ing her helplessly. 

with me?" demanded Rosa, springing up 

" I do/' said Bassett, blushing hotly. 

" Then what did you follow me all round 
the town for, and then down here ?' r 

Bassett, who was under a pledge of secrecy 
to the boatswain, and, moreover, had his 
own ideas as to the reception the truth might 
meet with, preserved an agonized silence. 

" It's no good," said Rosa, eyeing him 
mournfully, "You can't deceive me. You 
are head over heels, and the kindest thing I 
can do is to be cruel to you — for your own 

She sprang forward suddenly and, before 


"Don't stand there making sheep's 
eyes at me," said Rosa, "Try and forget 
me, Was it love at first sight, or did it come 
on gradual like ?" 

Bassett, moistening his tongue, shook his 

"Am I the first girl you ever loved? 1 ' 
inquired Rosa, softly. 

**No," said the boy. "I mean — 1 have 
never been in — love. I don't know what 
you are talking about," 

" Do you mean to say you are not in love 

the astounded youth could dodge, dealt him 
a sharp box on the ear. As he reeled under 
the blow she boxed the other. 

"It's to make you leave off loving me/' 
she explained; "and if I ever catch you 
following me again you'll get some more ; 
besides which I shall tell your mother." 

She picked up her parasol from the trunk, 
and after standing regarding him for a 
moment with an air of offended maidenhood, 
walked back to the town, Bassett, after a 
long interval, returned by another road. 

Original from 

bytjOOgk **^UNW 

N depicting the beauty 01 
childhood the photographer 
probably enjoys a greater 
advantage over the painter 
than in any other branch of 
portraiture. " You have to 
shoot as it flies," said Mr. Arthur Hacker, 
A. R.A., on one occasion, in reference to the 
constant movement, the ever-varying charm 
of a child, and bt to shoot as it flies 5 ' the 
camera is a far easier instrument to handle 
than the brush. Few children can stand the 
strain of even a short sitting without losing 
some of their freshness and spontaneity, and 
no amount of sympathetic understanding or 
manual quickness on the part of a painter will 
always overcome the difficulty. Thus it comes 
about that a photograph, in comparison with 
a painting, will often gain in animation what 
it loses in colour. But, of course, there are 
photographs and photographs, and even with 
the prettiest models it is not every photo- 
grapher who knows how to make the best 
use of his natural advantages. This much 
must he apparent to everyone who glances 
into shop windows where the photographs of 
children form so attractive a feature. 

How are these photographs regarded from 
the painters* standpoint? Which are the 
types of childish beauty as rendered by the 
camera which most appeal to them? We 
have sub: nit ted the question to a number of 
lady artists, who are so much more successful, 
as a rule, than their brothers of the brush in 
the portrayal of children, doubtless because 
they understand so much better their caprices 
and moods, and can more easily manage 

Vol. xskvL-- 9. 

them as sitters. Every woman is a born 
connoisseur in the beauty of childhood, but 
a woman artist such as Mrs, Perugini or 
Mnie* Canziani, so much of whose studio life 
has been spent in us rendering, is also a 
trained expert 

To the work of contemporary photographers 
Mrs. Perugini does not feel very compli- 
mentary, judging by her opinion of a large 
number of examples submitted to her, "All 
the children are affectedly posed," she 
remarks, after carefully studying them, "and 
there is a distressing air of self consciousness 
about them I do not like. One profile 
portrait of a kind, thoughtfuMooktng little 
girl is nice ; hut, as the dear child is com- 
pletely disfigured by the vulgar and terrible 
little hat and veil she wears, her picture is 
scarcely presentable." 

Eventually Mrs, Perugini made an excep- 
tion in favour of " Springtime," the little 
dark featured maiden with the garland of 
flowers, reproduced on page 67, although 
of opinion that the photographer had not 
succeeded in making the pretty face very 

In passing judgment upon the same 
collection of photographs Mme. Canziani, 
whose pictures of childhood, though of 
a different type, are as warmly admired 
as those of Mrs, Perugini, was much 
more favourable. She found at least three 
worthy of her commendation. "As a type 
of pure childish beauty, with holy expression 
and perfect features, I prefer * Somebody's 
Sailor- Boy/ though why the white of the 

* ye i»A 1 BdrWwfflftii&ff ,c face shou,d 



be so very white I fail to see. It goes far to 
spoil the beauty of the head, and I wonder 
whether the photographer has indiscreetly 
'touched it up.' Of the others I don't think 
much. Those that are pretty are spoilt by 
artificial posing and affectation, or by the 
indiscreet touching-up of the photographer." 

Miss Edith Scannell, who has been 
exhibiting pictures of children at the Royal 
Academy for many years past, selected the 
photograph which she considered "the most 
simple and childlike/' 

44 It reminds me," she declared, "of the 
lines by Jean Ingelow : — 

The sweet thing smiled, 

But did not speak ; 

A dimple came in either cheek, 

And all my heart went out to her." 

In Miss Scannell's opinion you must be 
fond of children to be very successful either 
in photographing or painting them.* '^The 
one thing you must not do," she adds, " is to 
pose them. Watch them, and some charac- 
teristic attitude will give you a picture twenty 
times prettier and more graceful than any you 
could have arranged." 

Mrs. Ernest Normand (Henrietta Rae) 
found so many charming conceptions of 
childhood among these photographs that 
she had some difficulty in choosing the 
one which best expressed her ideal. " 1 
like this the best/' she said finally, taking 
up the photograph we reproduce, "because 
there is a certain suggestion of wild Nature 
about its beauty. I don't care at all for the 
drawing-room type of prettiness in children, 
such as finds most favour with artists at the 
Royal Academy. It is the gipsy type, the 
wilful, perhaps even the naughty, children, 
which appeal to me most— although I might 
not say so if I had to paint many of them. 
Still, as you know, I speak as a mother who 
has brought up two boys, and therefore I 
know something about children on the 
practical, as well as artistic, side." 

Mrs. Anna Lea Merritt, the painter of that 
charming idyll of childhood in the Tate 
Gallery, "Love Locked Out," made her 
choice because the face in the photograph 
was "really childlike and natural." But she 
explained that if it had come within the 
scheme of our article she would have pre- 
ferred to send us a photograph from a portrait 
she painted some years ago, when the child was 
kept quite unconscious of the fact of posing. 

Miss Maude Goodman sent us the photo- 
graph of a child which has more than once 
figured, we believe, in her own pictures, 
although not in one of those by which she is 

so widely known. Miss Goodman's " most 
pleasing " child was about three years of age 
when the photograph was taken. She is now 
about eight. 

" I think you will agree," she says, " that 
the expression is so very natural. I regret 
that the photograph cannot give an idea of 
the child's colouring — golden hair, blue eyes, 
and rather brilliant complexion." 

I have referred to Miss Maude Goodman 
by the maiden name under which she first 
won fame as a painter of children, because it 
is by this name that she has continued to be 
known to the great public. But it is no 
secret that she is known to her friends as 
Mrs. Scanes, the mother of children now 
grown up who, in their early years, were 
the models for some of the most successful 
pictures by which she has charmed so many 
thousands of child-lovers. 

Mrs. Jopling-Rowe had at hand the photo- 
graph of a child which, to her eyes, w T as the 
embodiment of an ideal. 

" Is it necessary to say why I admire it ? " 
she exclaims. " Analyzing a sentiment robs 
it of its flavour (I have just been ordering 
dinner, so forgive a culinary expression). A 
Frenchman's remark always remains in my 
memory. He was standing in front of one of 
Whistler's pictures. A friend asked him why 
he liked it ? ' Je ne sais pas pourquoi/ he 
answered ; * mais cela donne une Amotion ' 
('I do not know why; but it gives me an 
emotion '). If anything can make us feel 
emotional, what more do we want?" 

Mrs. Murray Cookesley, who has painted 
some sweet children, although she is best 
known in the Royal Academy catalogues for 
her Egyptian subjects, had no difficulty in 
defining her preference for the photograph by 
which she is represented. 

"It represents the higher -bred type of 
child beauty. The face expresses mind and 
feeling as well as charm of form and colour- 
ing. The figure appears to be also perfectly 
formed, and therefore the photograph as a 
whole fulfils my ideal of a beautiful child." 

It is the children of the slums, rather than 
those of high breeding, that Lady Stanley — 
whom probably many readers still think of 
as Miss Dorothy Tennant — has chosen to 
depict, but she has shown a keen eye for the 
grace of childish form even when clothed in 
rags. For her ideal Lady Stanley referred 
me to a photograph taken by her friend, 
Mrs. Eveleen Myers, but she desired to let 
the picture speak for itself, and had nothing to 
say by way of poirting out the qualities in the 
face wh^fl^,^ QfPBJfOTiaBPeal to her. 



/ncSa Original Tfonfi«rV 



by Google 

Original from 


C rw^nl ' Original 1 









V.— The Monster of " Partridge Creek." 


[M. Georges Dupuy, the well-known French writer and traveller, who has made many explorations in the 
Polar regions, here relates a most extraordinary experience which befell him in the frozen steppes of Alaska. 
M. Dupuy, whose good faith is beyond question, takes full responsibility for his narrative, which is, it may be 
noted, however remarkable, in no way contradicted by known scientific facts. The drawings which accompany 
this article have been made from sketches and descriptions supplied by M. Dupuy.] 

HE story which follows is in 
no sense a romance. I wish, 
in the first place, to ask the 
readers of the following narra- 
tive to believe that I am in no 
way attempting to impose upon 
their credulity. Concerning the amazing 
spectacle I am about to describe, I report 
nothing but plain facts, however astounding 
and apparently incredible they may seem at 
first glance, precisely as they appeared to my 
own eyes — and I am possessed of excellent 
sight— and to those of my three companions 
— all three white men— without counting five 
Indians of the Klayakuk tribe, who have their 
camps on the shores of the River Stewart. 

The following are the names of the three 
ocular witnesses who are ready to testify to 
the truth of my assertions : the first is my 
hunting companion for many years, Mr. 
James Lewis Buttler, banker, of San 
Francisco ; the second is Mr. Tom Leemore, 
miner, from McQuesten River, in the Yukon 
Territory ; and lastly, the Reverend Father 
Pierre Lavagneux, a Canadian Frenchman 
and missionary at the Indian village of 
Armstrong Creek, not far from McQuesten. 

In the course of ten years' rambling in the 
four quarters of the world it has been my lot 
to witness a great number of amazing spec- 
tacles, and the strange experience of which I 
speak had become no more than a vivid 
recollection when, a few days ago — on 
January 24th, 1908 — the following letter 
reached me at Paris. It came from Father 
Lavagneux, who passes his life with his 
savage flock six hundred miles north-west 
of the Klondike. I give it here word for 
word : — 

" Armstrong Creek, 

"January 1st, 1908. 
" My Dear Son, — The < trader ' of 
McQuesten has just stopped here with his 
train of dogs and sledges. He has had a 

Vol. xxxvi.- 10 

hard journey from Dawson, by Barlow, Flat 
Creek, and Dominion. I expect to receive 
by him in another fortnight fresh provisions 
and news of the outside world. To-day is 
the first day of the New Year, and I want 
this letter to express my affectionate wishes 
for your health and happiness. I hope it 
will give me the pleasure of receiving ycu 
under my humble roof, here, at the other end 
of the earth. I will not believe that you will 
let your old friend in the Great North leave 
his old carcass to the Indians (who will some 
day or other make his coffin out of branches) 
without seeing him once more. 

" I have received your book, the reading cf 
which has given me the greatest pleasure. 
By the way, you are wrong in regard to that 
poor fellow, John Spitz. Alas ! he is no 
longer mail-carrier of the Duncan district. 
He died, poor fellow, at Eagle Camp, soon 
after you departed, not having survived the 
wound he received from the ' bald-face/* 
which you will remember. 

"Talking of ferocious animals, will you 
believe me when I tell you that ten of my 
Indians and myself saw again, on Christmas 
Eve, that horrible beast of Partridge Creek 
passing like a whirlwind over the frozen 
surface of the river, breaking off with his 
hind feet enormous blocks of ice from the 
rough surface? His fur was covered with 
hoar-frost, and his little eyes gleamed like 
fire in the twilight. The beast held in his 
jaws something which seemed to me to be 
a caribou. It was moving at the rate cf 
more than ten miles an hour. The tempera- 
ture that day was forty-five degrees below 
zero. At the corner of the 'cut-off' it 
disappeared. It is undoubtedly the same 
animal that we saw before. Accompanied 
by Chief Stineshane and two of his sons I 
followed the traces, which were exactly like 

* The bald or cin;iamon bear— the brown bear of the Arctic 

region 5 

111 1 L 







those which we all saw —Lee more, Buttler, 
you, and I — in the mud of the ' moose lick.' 
Six times, on the snow, we were able to 
measure the impression of its enormous body, 
the same size as we found it before, aim fist 
to the twentieth of an inch. VVe followed 
them to Stewart, fully two miles, when the 
snow began lo fall slightly and blotted out 
the traces," 

It was on receipt of this letter that I 
decided to write the story of my own experi- 

my coffee one afternoon in the veranda of 
Father Lavagneux's cabin when all at once I 
heard someone whistle from the farther bank 
of the river. A bark canoe, paddled by two 
Indians, was coming up the river in the 
shadow of the trees. Buttler was with them. 

" My dear fellow," he said, smiling as I 
met him, and endeavouring to hide his 
visible agitation, ** I have something very 
strange to tell you. Do you know that pre- 
historic monsters still exist? 11 

I broke out laughing, and together we 

from h] 



ence, which it recalled so vividly to mind, and 
of which It afforded a striking confirmation. 

The Story of My Friend Buttler 

The station of McQuesten, that far-off corner 
of the strange country of the Yukon, where 
the eight months of winter are so terrible but 
the short summer so marvellously beautiful, 
was on four occasions my chosen retreat 
during the eight years that I have known the 
North. A friend of mine in San Francisco, 
Mr* Buttler, who had come to Dawson City 
in order to purchase gold mining concessions, 
had promised to join me in order that we 
should go hunting together, I was taking 

returned by the little path which led to the 
Father's house. When Buttler had taken off 
his muddy boots and was ensconced in a 
comfortable seat he began to recount his 
story as follows : — 

" Leaving Gravel r^ake, where I arrived 
on Tuesday evening, my last stage was the 
mouth of Clear Creek, where I knew that 
you would send someone to meet me, 
Travelling was frightfully bad — forty miles of 
marshy nuinlrv. At !:i^t, at nightfall, 1 
descended a lull, and had the pleasure of 
seeing Grant's cab in f which was lighted up. 
Grant was a* home, and a good supper was 

TOiti wrtem 6ftftHiftSN next moming 




by Google 

Original from 




Original from 


7 8 


(yesterday) he came to tell me, in his reserved 
and silent manner, that three fine moose 
were feeding quietly behind the plateau of 
Partridge Creek. After swallowing a hasty 
mouthful all four of us— Grant, your two 
men, and I — started out from the hut We 
made a wide detour, At the top of a hill, 
where we had hidden ourselves, all of us 
stretched full length on the ground, we per- 
ceived, a short distance off in the valley, 
near a ' moose-lick/* three enormous moose 

of the main imprint, and a little to the 
side, footprints five feet long by two and a 
half feet wide, the claws being more than 
a foot long, the sharp points of which had 
buried themselves deeply in the mud. There 
was also the print, apparently, of a heavy tailj 
ten feet long and sixteen inches wide at the 

" We followed the tracks of the monster in 
the valley for five or six miles, and then, at 
the ravine of Partridge Creek— a place which 


moving slowly forward and quietly browsing 
on the moss and lichens. All at once they 
gave three simultaneous bounds, and, one of 
the males giving vent to the striking bellow 
which these animals utter only when they are 
hunted or mortally wounded, the three went 
off at a mad gallop towards the south, 

■'What had happened? 

u We decided to approach the spot where 
the animals had taken fright so suddenly. 
Arriving at the * moose-lick,' a spot about 
sixty feet long and fifteen wide, w + e saw in 
the mud, and almost on a level with the 
water of the Mick,* the fresh imprint of 
the body of a monstrous animal. Its belly 
had made an impression- in the slime more 
than two feet deep, thirty feet long, and 
twelve feet wide. Four gigantic paws, also 
deeply impressed, had left at each end 

* A sulphur sprinfr, rarely freezing in the winter, where 
animak come to drink at all seasons. 

the miners call a gulch — they ceased suddenly 
as if by enchantment." 

How the Monster Appeared to Us, 

The next day, at live o'clock in the morning, 
Father I^avagneux, Buttler, Leemore, a neigh 
bo u ring miner hastily summoned, myself, and 
five men of the tribe, crossed the River 
Stewart in two canoes. Neither of the first 
two guides, who were overcome with terror, 
nor the sergeant of the Mounted Police, who 
received our story with scepticism, nor the 
letter-carrier, would consent to accompany us* 

All day long we searched, without result, 
the valley of the little River MnQuesten, the 
flats of Partridge Creek, and the country 
between Barlow and the lofty, snow-covered 

At last, towards evening, tired out, after 
having toiled (o\ a long time through the 
great n^|#);Eft?l1i^M(M]AN he t0 P of a 



rocky ravine. The sun was setting. Lymg 
by the fire we let our eyes wander over the 
glittering expanse of marsh which we had 
just traversed. 

The tea was boiling and everyone was 
preparing to dip his tin cup into the pot, 
when suddenly a noise of rolling stones and 
a strange, harsh, and frightful roar made us 
all spring to our feet. 

The beast for which we had been look- 
ing—a black, gigantic form, the corners of 
his mouth filled with blood-stained slime, 
his jaws munching something, I know not 
what- -was slowly and heavily climbing the 
opposite side of the ravine, making the large 
boulders roll into the valley as he went ! 

Struck with terror, lather Lavagneux, 
Leemore, and myself tried to utter a cry of 
fright, but no sound issued from our parched 
throats, Unconsciously we had seized 
each other's arms. The five Indians were 
crouching down with their faces against 
the ground, trembling like leaves shaken 
by the wind. Buttler was already rushing 
down the hill 

"The dinosaurus !— it is the dinosaurus 
of the Arctic Circle ! " muttered Father 
with chattering 

The monster 
had slopped 
scarcely twenty 
paces from us, 
and, resting 
upon his huge 
belly, was star- 
ing, motionless, 
at the red sun, 
which was bath- 
ing all the land- 
scape in a weird 

For a full ten 
minutes , riveted 
to the spot 
by some strange 
force which we 
could not over- 
come, did we 
contemplate this 
terrible appa- 

W e were, 
however, in full 
possession of all 
our senses. 
There was not, 



and never will be, in our minds the least doubt 
as to the reality of what we saw. It was 
indeed a living creature, and not an illusion, 
which we had before us. 

The dinusaurus then turned his immense 
neck, but did not seem to see us. His 
withers were at least eighteen feet above the 
ground. His entire body from the extremity 
of his yawning jaws— which were surmounted 
by a horn like that of a rhinoceros -to the 
end of the tail must have measured at least 
fifty feet. His hide was like that of a wild 
boar, garnished with thick bristles, in colour 
a greyish - black. His belly was plastered 
with thick mud. 

At this moment Buttler returned to us. 
He told us that he thought the animal 
weighed about thirty tons. 

Suddenly the dinosaurus moved his jaws, 
visibly chewing some thick viscid kind of 
food, and we heard a sound like that of 
the crunching of small bones. Then, 
with a sudden movement, he raised himself 
on his hind legs, and giving utterance to a 
roar— a hollow, indescribable, frightful sound 
— and wheeling round with surprising agility, 
with movements resembling those of a 

kangaroo, he 
sprang with a pro- 
digious bound 
into the ravine. 

On the 24th, 
Buttler and 
myself, having 
taken two days' 
rest, started for 
Dawson City, for 
the purpose of 
demanding from 
the Governor 
fifty armed men 
and mules. 

Here my story 
ends, For a 
month we were 
the laughing- 
stock of the 
Golden City, and 
the I? aw so n 
Daily Nugget 
published an 
article about me, 
which was at the 
same time flatter- 
ing and satirical, 
entitled "A 
Rival of Foe. 11 

OF A rUMnSfcUkUS, KftUN IfHN wKWWbniK 



a cheap house 

in a 

T was 

A row of these houses, all 
alike, equally cramped, equally 
sordid, faced the scorching 
sun. The neighbourhood was 

one to break the heart of anyone .shut in 

there from sea and heather and the sight of 

anything but dust that suggested summer 

— and in bitter irony the builder of 

these narrow prisons had dignified them 

with historic 

names. * 4 Holy- 

roo(l/ J "Bal- 

moral," u Inver- 

ary," "Windsor," 

read like a 

piteous joke 

painted up 

on the blistered 


It was in 


that Miss Cle- 
mentina McLean 

of Bargaly was 

trying to make 

her bed* 

She was young 

and slight and 

pretty, with pale 

gold hair like an 

aureole , and a 

wistful mouth 

that trembled a 

little, half in 

mirth, half in real 

despair, when 

she saw what a 

poor business 

she was making 

of it 

She had tucked up her sleeves, poor child, 
in valiant imitation of a housemaid ; but her 
flimsy white skirt had a train and was sadly 
unsuitable to the work she was gallantly 
attempting, And she was not playing at 
Cinderella, Her eyes were still dark and 
tragic with the catastrophe that had driven 
them, the McLeans of Bargaly — always since 
the beginning of Scotland in history the 
McLeans of Bargaly — landless and penniless 
into a strange, harsh world. 

It had been their grandfather's fault at 

firstj and after- 
wards their 
father's. Ruin 
had been staved 
off with despe- 
rate expedients 
hidden from the 
children of the 
house, until at last 
the earthquake 
had befallen. 
When Peter 
McLean the 
younger lifted liis 
inheritance he 
had nothing in 
his hands. 

And so there 
they were, the 
three of them — 
Peter and Cle- 
mentina, and 
M ins Beau- 
eha m p, their Eng- 
lish aunt, making 
their brave effort 
to live a kind of 
life in a narrow 
brick house in a 
^__ inginal from hot and airless 





*• I'm a poor sort of Cinderella/' said 
Clementina, laughing, and caught her breath , 
for in the real Cinderella story there had been 
a Prince, and in hers — alas ! 

Her hands shook suddenly and she dropped 
the ends of her counterpane and sat down, 
gazing into the quivering heat to which she 
had vainly flung up her window. A faint 
pink came into her cheek and then died away, 
leaving it paler. In this horrible little brick 
house there could be no secrets ; it was 
impossible to be deaf to the voices, terribly 
distinct, in the room below. 

Miss Beauchamp was as usual lamenting 
their straitened lot and how hard it was to be 
careful. It was the chops, she said, plain- 
tively, that killed her ; she had thought it 
would be so economical to live on chops. 
And Peter was asking — the girl could fancy 
him jerking up his red head and stammering 
his impatience — why she would incessantly 
harp on their fallen fortunes. 

There was a perceptible pause, to give 
point to the solemnity of her answer. 

" To point the moral. I must ask you to 
be civil to that man Smith." 

The girl could hear Peter kicking a chair 
out of his way. 

" Civil to him ? That bounder ! When 
I think that his father " 

" Lent yours money ? It was most 

" Yes ; and then " the boy's voice 


14 Wanted it back ? Naturally. And took 
Bargaly. My dear, Providence has settled 
things very nicely. Suppose this Smith was 
a middle-aged wretch with a family ! Instead 
of which he is quite possible. If I could 
only prevail upon you and Tina to see things 
in the proper light " 

The girl upstairs felt her cheeks turn a 
bitter scarlet. 

"The poor man worships her/' continued 
Miss Beauchamp, shrilly ; " and he is so 
astonishingly rich " 

" We are not for sale." 

Miss Beauchamp never permitted herself to 
notice irrelevant interruptions ; she pursued, 

" All my efforts," she said, "appear to go 
for nothing. Tina is so difficult to persuade, 
and you scowl at him openly and watch him 
like a tiger. I've coughed myself hoarse, 
and you would not leave them. alone." 

Then Clementina heard her brother's voice 
moved out of all caution. 

" Oh, I know what you want. You want 
me to persecute my sister, my only sister — 

Vol i xxx vi. — 11. 

to taunt and reproach her and drive "her into 
marrying this man Smith." 

" I never expect you," broke in Miss 
Beauchamp, sharply, "to have the sense." 

The house door shut with a bang that 
made the slight walls quiver, and the girl 
upstairs smiled faintly. Peter was fiercely 
loyal to the family pride and to her, and he 
looked at this thing as others would look at 
it. Friendless but stanch, fighting a hard, 
unfamiliar battle, his soul took fire at the 
shameful idea of buying peace. Had she 
called herself Cinderella ? Ah, if the Prince 
should come, in his pomp of money, she 
could not for very shame say " Yes " to what 
he should ask her. 

She leaned out suddenly as if she wanted 
air. How strange and heavy this heat was ; 
how threatening, like the sultry quiet before 
a storm ! How could one breathe here, 
wanting the summer winds, cool off the sea 
and fragrant off the heather ? Her heart 
cried out for Bargaly, for the wide sweep of 
the hills and the blue deepness of the water 
with its rush of little waves at the Sound. 

He could wander unchecked in these dear 
places. All that was his, and in her dreams 
it was haunted by him. Why should he 
trouble to fight her defiant coldness ? Why 
should he not choose another mistress for the 
old castle at Bargaly ? A rich woman, one 
like himself, since it was dangerous to tempt 
the poor. 

The thought hurt her. She caught her 
breath, sighing ; and then trembled all over 
because she had seen him coming up the 

He had followed them ; he had found 
them out in this mean refuge where they 
had hidden themselves in exile. Clementina 
held on to the window-sill, fascinated, as she 
watched him looking up blankly from house 
to house. 

Mr. Smith was a big young man with short 
fair hair and ridiculously freckled ; he looked 
absurdly boyish for a man of thirty, and you 
noticed it when he smiled. He discovered 
the house and made a terrific noise on 
the knocker, and as Clementina wondered 
nervously who would have to open it, she 
heard Miss Beauchamp rejoicing as she flew 
at him and dragged him in. 

It was a haughty Clementina who answered 
her aunt's third, most impatient, call by 
coming down slowly and walking into the 
sitting-room like a Princess. 

Mr. Smith started up, and she was almost 
frightened at the eagerness in his face. Her 
heart fluttered a.? she honoured him with a 



stiff and formal bow. " Won't you shake 
hands with me ? " he said, openly dis- 

The girl looked defiantly at Miss 
Reauchamp, who was signalling frantically to 
her to be polite, but let her little, limp hand 

won't vou shake hands WITH Mff HE SAlU. ' 

lie a minute in his. She felt like a caught 
bird, and her heart rebelled at the dreadful 
promptness with which Miss Beauehamp 
deserted her and left her patently, purposely 
alone with him. Only anger lent her the 
courage to stay and brave it out. 

" Why are you so unkind to me?" said 
Mr. Smith. 

She almost laughed in her nervousness. 
If she were to tell him why ! 

" Unkind ? J ' she repeated, haughtily. 

* ( Yes/' he said, gazing at her, this young, 
slight wisp of a thing whose lip was so 
disdainful. " I've come a long way to 
see you. Fd have come before, but I didn't 
dare to." 

Into Clementina's mind flashed a recol- 
lection of Miss Reauchamp posting a letter 
obstinately in person two nights ago. She 
trembled, hot all over. 

11 Did Aunt Mary ask you to come ? she 


" She's awfully good to me, ; said Mr. 

Smith, not denying it* " It — it used to 

comfort me to feel I had an advocate," 
** Advocate — for the persecution I " said 
Clementina, under her 

He did not catch it ; he 
was looking at her in a 
despairing, adoring way, 
that would have softened 
any other woman but this 
desperate girl, who was ask- 
ing herself passionately 
whether he too thought she 
was sure to capitulate be- 
cause they w^re so poor 
and owed him money. His 
voice was not quite steady 
when he spoke, 

" Don't look at me as if I 
was a dragon/ 1 he said. " If 
you don't want me to stay 
I'll go. I don't ask you if 
you care for me, I know 
you don't." The girl turned 
her face from him suddenly 
as if he had struck her. " But 
I'd like you to believe that 
if I've bothered you it's been 
only because I loved you so. 
Can't you understand ? B 

He stopped, and hesi- 
tated, Clementina was very 
still ; he could cateh the soft 
line of her cheek as she 
stood with her head turned 
away ; and a wild hope seized 

him. His face lit up, and he stammered 

with eagerness, 

11 If you could try " — he said, unsteadily— 

" if you could try, my darling, I'd be very 

patient ; as patient as the old house at 

Rargaly looking for its mistress ! " 

She turned round, and her eyes were 


11 Don't ! " she cried " It's yours, all 

yours. You can do what you like with it ; 

ruin it, burn it down to the ground. Only 

don't dare to hold it out as a bribe, If I- 

loved you " (bravely), **do you think I should 

care for anything in the world but you ? If 

I did not^ " 

He moved quickly, but she looked at 

him so indignantly that he dropped his 


M Oh r shs r fai e ^f r oi^ ou think bad| y yf 

me; ^mfeoffll^Textf never dare 



to insult me so. I would rather die than 
marry you, Mr. Smith." 

"That's convincing,' he muttered, hope- 
lessly. " You're very proud." 

" Yes," said Clementina, slowly, " I suppose 
I'm proud." 

There was a short silence. The young 
man was regarding her with a curious, search- 
ing look, as if to print her face on his 
memory for a long, long time. 

"Well," he said, at last, "I'm sorry. I 
thought it was no good, but hope dies hard. 
I only came over, you know, to say good 

"To say good-bye ?" she repeated. The 
anger that had supported her was leaving 
her, and she felt strange and weak. 

" Yes," he said, carelessly. " I'm going to 
Africa. A friend of mine, an explorer, is 
going out, and he and some others want to 
push into the interior." 

" Like— like those men who get mur- 
dered ? " said Clementina. 

" In a mild way, yes. Old Turnham is 
cracked on wild beasts and cannibals, and 
likes to meet them on equal terms ; they 
nearly ate him up once or twice, but he can't 
keep away, and the others are just as bad. I 
was awfully lucky to get the chance. One 
man's mother persuaded him to drop it, and 
Turnham let me take his place." 

He spoke with an attempt at sprightliness, 
hardly noticing what he said, but Clementina 

"Oh," she said, " but the danger " 

" That's half the fun," said Mr. Smith. 

<: And the savages — oh, the savages ! " 

'* That's the other half," he said, cheerfully. 
" Oh, we're all fighting men. I'm the only 
one who's green, and even I can shoot. You 
see, a chap must have some diversion, and if 
1 don t come back " 

"If you don't — come— back?" repeated 
Clementina ; her voice sounded queer to 

" Well, I was going to say you would be 
rid of me for good," said Mr. Smith, with his 
brave, boyish smile. He held out his hand 
and took hers and shook it ; she felt his 
touch in a dream. He was going. She 
would be released from his courtship, from 
the bitter consciousness that the McLeans 
had nothing to "match his money but the 
pride of the dispossessed. The girl who had 
fought against being driven into a marriage 
whose obvious expediency would deserve 
contempt felt strangely reckless. She made 
him a low curtsy " Bon voyage ! " she said. 
" I hope you will find it — warm." 

And then she found herself staring at him 
in a mist of sudden tears. 

"Oh, take care of yourself! " she cried to 
him, with a sob. 

He started ; in a minute he had come 
back, and his arm was round her. 

" Dearest," he said, in a glad, incredulous 
voice, " do you care ? " 

She held on to him with ridiculous little 
clinging hands. 

" Oh," she said, " yes, yes, yes ! " 

For a moment there was silence, and then 
Clementina spoke. His arm had trembled 
as it held her, he had scarcely dared to 
touch her— only to kiss her hair. 

. " And you won't leave me ? " she said. 
The man laughed softly. 

" Leave you ? " he said. " Why, you're my 
girl now— mine to take care of and love and 
comfort ; mine always. Leave you ? No." 

And then Clementina too broke into 
shaking, almost defiant, laughter. 

" To think that I was afraid ! " she said. 
" Let people judge me ; let them despise 
me ! As if I cared ! " 

The queer recklessness in her voice 
puzzled him. 

" Why, sweetheart," he said, " who is going 
to judge you ? Only, you heartless baby, 
I'd like to know why you half killed me with 
your unkindness." 

" Oh, I was a proud coward ! " sighed 
Clementina; her eyes were still wistful, 
gazing up at him. ' " You believe in me at 
least," she added, faltering; "you understand." 

"Understand?" he said. "Oh, it's too 
wonderful yet, sweetheart ! " 

And then a sudden, childish terror seized 
her. These horrible explorers might hold 
him to his word. They might say he was 
bound in honour not to leave a gap in their 

When he said carelessly he supposed he 
would have to run up to town and explain, 
she clung to him nervously and implored 
him to telegraph. He laughed tenderly, 
holding her at arms' length. 

" What ? " he said. " Dash their hopes to 
the ground before I'm quite sure of you ? 
I've not asked Peter's permission yet ; he 
may tell me you are too precious " 

" Don't ! " she said, shivering. " Quick, 
quick ; don't lose a minute. Tell them 
immediately that you cannot go." 

" Oh," he submitted, gaily. " Anything to 
oblige my Princess. If you'll kiss me to 
make it real, I'll run out and send a wire." 

He stood over her, dear and smiling, and 

the JfflteJ§Tf '^fffll^lf 5 she lifted her 



face to his + And then he was gone, and 
Clementina was left half dizzy with the 
memory of his kiss, 


The girl felt so confident in her happiness 
that she forgot for the moment that the sky 
had not changed, To her it was heavenly 
kind, but to others it was still the same 
burning, unpitying sky of brass. 

The first blow to her sudden confidence 
came from Peter, when she danced up to 
him, transfigured, and laid her hands on his 
shoulders. He had almost run into Mr. 
Smith at the 
street corner, and 
his face was dis- 
turbed, but Cle- 
mentina was in 
too big a hurry 
to nolice that. 

" Oh, my dear, 
my dear ! 7> she 
cried. " Dear, 
Vm so — Pm so 
happy. Guess ! " 

The tall, 
shabby, red- 
haired young 
aristocrat started 
as if each little 
eager hand was 
a serpent. A 
look that was 
nearly horror 
sprang into his 

" No, no, no !" 
he interrupted, 
fiercely. *■ Don't 
say that you've 
sold yourself, 
Tina, Tina!" 

"Sold my- 
self ?" she fal- 
tered. She had 
already forgotten 
what would be the 
world's reproach. 

The hot blood of his ancestors flamed up 
in Peter McLean. Was it for this he had 
guarded and sheltered his little sister, wor- 
shipping her with a passionate determination 
to win a way for her back to her rightful 
place? Could she not trust him? Or was 
it a mad impulse of self-sacrifice that had 
cheated her into this? She had snubbed 
the man, shunned the man, scorning him 
publicly, and hitherto faced misfortune with 

the same high-spirited bravery as himself. 
His voice rose so high in its incredulous 
anger that it brought in Miss Beauchamp, 
and the girl ran to her blindly in her tears, 

"Oh, comfort me, comfort me, Aunt 
Mary," she cried ; "he will break my 

"Good gracious !" said Miss Beauchamp, 
staring from one to the other. She was a 
rather stout woman, of a commanding pre- 
sence and an air of muddled diplomacy ; she 
always meant to be kind and believed herself 
to be crafty. 

" Mr. Smith," said Clementina, hurriedly, 

clinging to her — 
" Mr. Smith said 
he had come to 
say good ■ bye. 
He said he was 
going to Africa, 
and I said, ' Take 
care of yourself,' 
and he said, ' Do 
you care ? J and 
I said — and I 
said — — " — her 
voice trailed 
away into excited 

"And you 
said, 4 No ' ? " de 
manded Miss 

" And I said, 
< Yes/ " 

" And /," 
burst in Peter, 
"say that my 
sister shall not 
marry a man 
for his money 
and disgrace 
herself, It's 
plain enough 
what she's 
doing it for. I 
would shoot 
him first !" 
" Von dear, good, sensible girl !" exclaimed 
Miss Beauchamp. She patted the gin 
triumphantly on the back. 

" Hush ! " she interposed. " Let me speak, 
my dear Please remember, Peter, that your 
sister is no doubt acting more for your sake 
than for her own. Instead of reproaches 
you owe her thanks/ 1 

" Don't !" bes<*eched Clementina, writhing 






" Dear child, I applaud your good sense ; 
the more so as I hardly dared to expect it. 
It is so difficult for a girl of your age to rise 
above sentiment. Yes, I am quite proud of 
my dear, wise niece." 

" Oh, don't touch me ! " cried the girl, 
wildly, shaking off the approving hand. 
" Don't praise me — don't dare to praise me. 
Oh, I've tried to hate him ; I've told myself 
he's rich and I'm poor, and his father helped 
to ruin us, and people would always whisper 
that I married him for his money ; and I 
would rather die ! But when he said good- 
bye to me I couldn't fight myself any longer 
— I loved him so." 

She stopped in her hurrying explanation 
and looked imploringly at her brother. 

" Can't you believe it ? " she said. He 
shook his head. 

" Poor little girl," he said, compassionately, 
" it's no good pretending." 

" But I tell you I love him." 

" Don't be a little hypocrite," said , Peter, 
pity giving place in his voice to a sharp 

Clementina stood looking from one to the 
other, and her young face was pale. 

" If you can think so ill of me," she said, 
" you who have known me as a baby, what 
must he think ? What better right has he to 
believe in me ? Oh, I am so ashamed, I am 
so ashamed ! " 

She left the room, and they heard her 
sobbing wildly as she fled upstairs. 

" You thankless wretch ! " said Miss 
Beauchamp, following to console. 

Peter tramped up and down restlessly, 
pulling at his straggling red moustache. It 
was a horrible position. In his prejudiced 
eyes it was unmistakable that Tina had suc- 
cumbed to their aunt's worldly wisdom and 
incessant preaching of heartless prudence. 

The child must be rescued, but how was it 
to be done ? 

There was only one way. He must send 
the fellow about his business. He stalked 
out into the narrow passage as Miss Beau- 
champ, with an air of magnanimous import- 
ance, came down the stair. 

" How is Tina? " he asked, anxiously. 

"Oh, congratulate yourself," said Miss 
Beauchamp, sharply. " You have made her 
ill. She won't let me soothe her, but lies on 
her bed crying. Anyone would suppose from 
the way you two go on that this Mr. Smith 
was a monster in human shape. When I 
think of the difficulty I've had in prevailing 
upon her and making her see him in the 
proper light And now she accuses me 

of trying to wreck her life ! I think you are 
both mad." 

" Hush ! " said Peter, savagely. He had 
heard a swift step in the street, and before 
Mr. Smith reached the knocker he had flung 
the door open. 

Miss Beauchamp, thrust into the back- 
ground, saw him usher the visitor, with grim 
politeness, into the sitting-room and shut the 
door. She started to pursue them, but 
hesitated, wringing her hands in alarm. 
Would it be safe to warn Tina that mischief 
was going on, or would she cling pusillani- 
mously to her brother's side ? 

Mr. Smith looked at the man of the house 
with an air of glad comprehension that 
missed the sinister silence in which he had 
let him in. 

"Has she told you?" he said. "Shake 
hands, will you, and wish us luck." 

" Sit down," said Peter McLean ; but the 
lover was too excited. 

"It is just as if the stars had fallen," he 
said, his good-looking, freckled face broaden- 
ing into a smile. " I'd made up my mind to 
clear out, you know. I thought it was no 
good haunting her ; I thought it was utterly 

" Sit down," said Peter. 

And then the young man realized that 
something was wrong. 

"What is the matter?" he said. "I've 
been drivelling, but I'm so awfully happy, you 
see. What is it ? " 

Peter looked at him grimly, with folded 

" I want a word with you before we are 
interrupted," he said, significantly, "and I 
mean to have it. You are under the impres- 
sion that my sister has promised to marry 

Mr. Smith stared at him, puzzled. 

" I must ask you," said Peter, slowly, " to 
have the goodness to release her." 

" What do you mean, McLean ? Have 
you taken leave of your senses ? " cried Mr. 
Smith ; and then, suddenly, " What have 
you done with Clementina ? " 

Peter McLean winced at the familiar con- 
fidence that spoke of his sister by her 
Christian name. 

" My sister," he said, loftily, " is not fit to 
be present at this interview. I'm humbling 
myself for her sake. I'm not exactly a 
diplomat, and I can't fight you. But if you 
have any decent feeling you'll let her go." 

" What on earth do you mean ? " said Mr. 

iifft^ii^ been driven 



into it? "said Peter, bitterly. "Told—I'm 
putting it plainly, Mr- Smith — that it was her 
business to mend the family fortunes by 
sacrificing herself to a rich man she hated ? ?J 


Clementina's lover was breathing hard ; 
the amazed and happy look was wiped out 
of his face, and he spoke, stammering : — 

*' That's a poor joke, Mr Lean.'' 

" It's no joke to us/ 1 said Peter, " Man, 
do you think it is a pleasure to tell you that ? 
The family honour is all we have left. Oh, 
don't flatter yourself you can buy my sister/' 

It was at that moment — when Mr. Smith 
was staring at Clementina's champion, half 
incred u lou s, 
half stricken — 
that Miss Beau- 
champ, having 
recovered her 
presence of 
mind, sailed 
majestically into 
the room. 

" What has 
that wicked boy 
been saying ? " 
she exclaimed, 
"Don't be- 
lieve it ! n and 
then she lost 
her head and 
turned upon 
Peter with an 
i n c a u t i ously 
loud aside — 
" You wretch ! 
After your poor, 
good sister sacri- 
ficing herself for 

"You hear 
that?" said 
Peter, sardoni- 

" I hear," said 
Mr, Smith. 

There was a 
short pause. He 

looked round mechanically for his hat and 
straightened himself, moving to the door. 

" So I must go to Africa after all," he said, 


" Africa ? " shrieked Miss Kenuchamp. 
"Oh, no, no, no! What shall I do? With 
Tina too upset to be reasonable ! Wait till 

I ask her to come down " 

He stopped her, looking very big and 
boyish with that hurt look on his face, 
and a mouth that was sad and steady. 

" Don't," he said. "I'd rather not. You 
can tell her I won't worry her any more. 
Tell her I'd have died twice over to save her 
a minute's pain. I was a fool, you know, but 
I thought she cared. Perhaps 111 get over 

it out there. And if there's righting " 

He broke off* A little eager figure was 
hurrying down the stair. At her cry he 

turned round 
and took a hasty 
step towards her 
in time to catch 
her as she threw 
herself into his 

Over that 
precious, fair 
head he faced 
the other two 
like a soldier 
who had won 
back his flag. 

11 My good- 
ness! "said Miss 

Peter was 
dumb with sur- 
prise, recognis- 
ing something 
that was too real, 
too passionate 
for pretence. 
He found his 
voice at last. 

"Tina," he 
said, breath- 
lessly, "you 
don't mean to 
say you love 

C lementina 
lifted her head 
bravely from her lover's breast. With his arm 
round her she was safe. 

"Oh," she said, laughing weakly, " I love 
him better than all the world." 

by Google 

Original from 

rises and falls 
e line of 
feminine fashion. 
It ejipands, it 
contracts, it 
curves, it de- 
flects, it rolls 
with a large 
opulence or 
droops in rigid 
angularity ; one 
year it is con- 
cave, another it 
is convex, and 
when it is and has 
done all these things 
it does them all over 
again. For there is 
nothing new — not even 
in the modes which the fair readers of The 
Strand are wearing this summer of iyo8. Only 
there seems to be some occult law which governs 
the recurrence of the various styles In fact, it 
is not mere chance — there is a science of fashion 
— if certain philosophers, who are now 
foolishly giving up their attention ex- 
clusively to economics, physics, and 
biology, would only condescend to find 
it out. 

Of something more than colour and 
form and fabric is the costume a la mode 
—it is even more than line in its relation 
to the wearer, A hat or a dress may 
be the same in form and yet be entirely 
different according to the way it is 
worn. It is often a case, as a glance at 
the accompanying diagrams will show, 
that " Those behind cried * Forward ! ' 
And those in front cried ' Back ! J " 

Many persons of the stupid male 
gender wonder why the attenuation- 
apparent, at any rate — of the present 
ladies' skirts should so suddenly 
follow the amplitude of 1906 and 
the threatened opulent rotundity of 

1900, They think it is reaction, but it 
is not reaction. What were the previous 
marked periods of the hoop and crinoline? 
About 1770, 1820, 1857, i860, 1865 — all 
years indicating national, not to say European, 
depression. When, in the tenth year of 
the reign of the good and patient King 
George III., the skirts of the ladies of his 
Court began to expand he should have been 
filled with instant apprehension, as heralding 
the loss of the American Colonies. Just as 
when France and Napoleon were at the 
height of their glory the robes of the ladies 

were of un- 
wonted scanti- 
ness, so when 
England met 
her first re- 
verses in the 
Boer War the 
cry went forth, 
"Crinoline is 
coming in," 
The close of 

In rhe above dta^r^m Ww. linr* indicate »he *hj,pt uf the 
different periods — N\jte ihe respective length and ibortneafi 


ortntsa o* 




Above are shown four other outlines— Note the line ot the " polonaise " 
for 1875 as compared with the close-draping skirt of to-day. 

the American Civil War and the end of the 
cotton crisis brought with it the announce- 
ment from the mysterious oracle of fashion 
that "Crinolines will no longer be 
worn." In other words, it is the wind 
not of prosperity, but of adversity, 
which seems to inflate the skirt a la 
mode. Ready for any emergency, it 
would seem, are the skirts of the last 
two seasons. For while, with actual 
prosperity, they are apparently of the 
strictest tenuity, yet a closer examina- 
tion reveals innumerable copious folds 
and tucks that are ready for any tight- 
ness in the money market or national 

Look at the problem how you will, 
our only safety is in the " pull-backs," 
we think they were called, of 1875. ' ^ e 
only objection comes from the ladies, 
who denounce what Miss Ellen Terry, 
in a letter to the present writer, called 
" vulgarity of line," and make no secret 
of their love for the full and flowing 
contours of the Greek. It is certainly 
more irksome to move about in a tight 
skirt, even if it does indicate that the 
good times are with us in which the 
dressmaker can be paid. 

It has not escaped the notice of the 
observant, by the by, that men's nether 

garments also tend to contract in width 
at the same time that ladies' skirts 
diminish. When length and slimness 
are conjoined a graceful result is usually 
obtained ; but it is otherwise when, as 
may be seen by the line for 1809, the 
skirt is short and made still shorter by 
a sort of overskirt, hardly more than an 
apron, which covers the upper portion 
of the garment. The outstanding 
feature of the skirt for 1820, as com- 
pared with the hoops and crinolines of 
both an earlier and a later day, is its 
extremely low suspension from the hips. 
It never went lower from the waist than 
in 1820 ; just as the high-water mark — 
if one may use the expression — of the 
waist-band was reached half a century 
earlier, in 1 770. Ninety years afterwards 
the crinoline reached its amplest curves, 
but its progress upwards to the armpits 
was suddenly arrested, at least as far as 
the front was concerned, for the intro- 
duction of the " polonaise " about 1875 
threatened to elevate the back not much 
below the fair wearers* shoulder-blades. 
This began the vogue of the bustle, or 
"dress improver," which synchronized 

with and followed the blessed era of the 

" Grecian bend." 

For all that they are frequently joined, 

On o 1 n 3 1 S i"""i iti 

The height ot the skirt is iniere: ting- Contrast that of 1770 with the low- 




more or less indisso- 
lubly, there is little real 
intimate relation be- 
tween the skirt and the 
blouse. The size of the 
blouse, or "shirt," is, 
of course, regulated by 
the length or brevity of 
the waist. In 1785 the 
waist- line was low ; in 
1 8 10 it came, in the 
woman of fashion, just 
under the armpits, lead- 
ing a contemporary wit 
to remark that it was 
a pity the ladies pre- 
tended to have any 
waist at all, since by 
going an inch or two 
higher the neck would 
serve both purposes ! 
But you cannot suspend 
a silk sash from the 

The historical out- 
line and length of 
sleeves forms an inter- 
esting study. At the 
beginning of the last 
century the woman's 
sleeve was tight and 
came only to the elbow. 
A decade later it was 
long and baggy, while 
in 1811-12 it first at- 
tained the globularity 
of a balloon, and re- 
mained so, with inter- 
vals of partial deflation, 
until 1830. With the 
accession of Victoria 
the fashionable sleeve 
was long and close- 
fitting, and it was not 
until twenty years later 
that they began to 
bulge again. When they 
did they were gathered 

The waist-line rises or falls each in tightly at the Wrist, 
season — It was absurdly high in • • . . ^„ fc -^ t t _ 

1810 and very low in T root in great contrast to the 

later varieties, which 
assume the most fantastic shapes at their 
extremities. In 1875 restricted sleeves were 
again decreed because with the mountainous 
polonaise it would never do to have conspicu- 
ous sleeves as well. Tight sleeves were the 
fashion in 1880, and so remained for nearly a 
decade, when they began to bulge about the 
shoulder, and so led to the balloon sleeves of 
1893-97. In 1904, while they were tight at the 


The line of sleeves expands and contracts— Balloon sleeves 
appear and disappear at intervals. 

neck, to say nothing of leather belts with 
enormous buckles. Somewhere about 
1829 the waist -line fell once more; but 
in the closing days of the crinoline it was 
approaching the armpits again. Six years 
ago long waists were the mode ; now they 
are tending to shortness again, with the 
advent of pseudo-Greek draperies. 


Vol. xxxvi.— 12. 


In hats, the .grt'Utst size was utained in 1787 and in 1907- 
th<* oddest shape in 1S10. 





A wide £ti]f separates the Hl pork^pie " bai of ifioo from the 
befeathcrtd picture- bat of 190$. 

topi they were full below the elbow. We seem 
only to have left a season or two behind when 
the ladies appear determined to do without 
sleeves altogether for day wear; but fortunately, 
on the whole, we think, the new mode stopped 
short at the elbow* What Fashion seems to 
be ever striving for is not only novelty, which 
is refreshing, but also the greatest good of the 
greatest number. In a race of Katishas (the 
lady, you remember, who, though possessed 
of a caricature of a face, had an elbow that 
people came miles to behold) the ladies 
might forego all opaque arm drapery with 
impunity \ but any style is short-lived which 
is becoming, not to say flattering, merely to a 
select few. After a half-sleeve period it now 
looks as though an era of close fitting sleeves 
were beginning, 

If we regard the outline of hats, what a gulf 
separates the turban of 1810 and the " pork- 
pie " of i860 from the mighty structures of 
1908 I Yet we have not yet approached the 
dimensions of the hat of 
1787, Nothing can be 
more certain than that 
the present reign of the 
big hat will be followed 
by a decade of the small- 
est variety of head- 

Perhaps the style 
which will never al- 
together die out is what 
is denominated the 
"picture-hat," albeit its 
very modernness may 
influence us in our par- 
tiality and our prophecy. 
Yet the picture - hat 

covers a wide range of styles, none of which, 
we fear, would quite commend themselves to 
Volumnia or Valeria, or any of the old-world 
dames. The poke- bonnet of 1835 and iS$3 
has a charm of its own ; it furnishes a piquant 
frame for a pretty face, and even a face which 
is not pretty may enjoy for the nonce a very 
becoming setting. The worst of it is, the 
poke bonnet had to be taken off, and then, 
alas, carne shattered illusions! 




In the eajly sixties tbe poke- ben net of 1835, shown tn the 
first diagram on this page, was revived. 

The styles in coiffure for a century are 
innumerable, but in the main the outline 
lasts a decade — sometimes two — before it is 
radically altered. The exception to this rule 
is in the last fifteen years or so, when the 
multiplicity of hairdressers and the increased 
attention given to the hair are responsible for 
the most ephemeral and fluctuating modes. 
The only style that has not been revived is 
the straight parting and ear-concealing tresses 
of the 'sixties. The 
chignon had, of course, 
its counterpart in the 
" bun "of 1894. 

Fen years later the 
stupendous opulent 
upward sweep of the 
" Gibson roll' lent dis- 
tinction to many other- 
wise plain faces and tour- 
nures. Just now an era of 
moderation has set in, 
and we are treated to 
little curls and a deft 
manipulation of Nature s 
tresses, somewhat in the 

PJiD 1829 

* TOi'MffiK aPmn spirit. 




When the Waters Were Out 




**tt /LS I 


PICTURE a big- 
chimney ed, 
two - storeyed, 
red ■ brick house, 
dormer windows 
above and narrow 
lattices below, cover 
it with luxurious 
creeper, set it in a 
meadow not half 
a mile from the 
Thames, show the spires of Oxford for 
your far western horizon, place a farm- 
house within a mile of it and a mill within 
two, and you will have the home of Gideon 
Nedd, the rascally miser, as the village has 
remembered him. Here he starved himself 
for twenty long years — hither more than once 
came the knights of the skeleton- keys to try 
a bout with him, But Gideon had a double- 
barrelled shot-gun, and he was not afraid to 
let it off. " Tis lead that is all you'll get in 
this house," he would say, and, for a cer- 
tainty, few got more. 

None knew how this miserable outcast 
lived or what his fortune might be. Tradi- 
tion had it that he was very rich, and tra- 
dition would not be denied* His few relatives 
had been driven from the house long ago, 
not by his violence, mark you, but simply by 
loathing, for assuredly a more repulsive 
creature had rarely been seen by Thames- 
side, Short and deformed, his face awry 
and shrivelled, his skin lustrous and yellow, 
his eyes mean and watery, his step noiseless 
as that of a cat, men feared him less for 
that which he was than for that which he 
might be- 
Now, this was the man who was waked 
from his sleep upon the night of the third 
day of December by a great sound of rushing 
waters and the dismal voice of winds. There 
had been rain and tempest in the river valley 
for many days past. Men spoke of nothing 

Copyright, 1908, by Max Fembertt 

else but the floods which must follow, and 
duly prepared to resist them. But Gideon 
Nedd took no precautions. His house, built 
upon the rising meadow-land, had been girt 
about by water many a time, but never had 
water brought a message of warning to his 
door Why should he trouble himself now, 
when so many years had passed ? 

Such was Gideon Nedd, who awoke upon 
that December night and heard the roaring 
of the waters as ihey leaped above the river's 
bank and spread far and wide across the 
low-lying meadows. He had a good courage 
of his own, and it was rare that any voice of 
the darkness affrighted him. If he could 
not sleep he would spend the time over his 
tattered accounts, or, it might be, in fingering 
the notes and coins which stood to him for 
the labour of a lifetime. Never had a better 
ingenuity been displayed in hiding a treasure. 
How he would gloat upon the glittering 
pieces, to be sure — what pains he had been 
at to hide them even from his own eyes, for 
he lived alone in the cottage and no other 
human being had set foot in it for more than 
ten years ! Scarce a nook and cranny in that 
crazy building which had not its treasure- 
hole— the walls were riddled as though by 
cannon - shots ; there was hardly a sound 
board in any floor you might step upon— the 
very rusting grates were so many strong-rooms 
wherefrom a deftly plunged arm might have 
extracted treasure abundant. 

Gideon sat up in his ragged bed and con- 
fessed that this particular night of December 
was a "wonder." Verily it seemed as though 
the house would be lifted up bodily in its 
humid embrace and hurled through the 
blackness. Even Gideon Nedd quailed 
before the sounds. He had never feared 
night before, but now he feared it 

The measure of his fear on this night of 
flood is best to be expressed when we say 
that he ventured the luxury of a candle, and, 

9 2 




having lighted it, went downstairs to liis 
sitting-room as though to hide himself from 
the dismal sounds above. Believing greatly 
in the stability of the Marsh House, as liis 
cottage was proudly called, he had no real 
fear for his own safety ; none the less he 
reminded himself that a chimney might fall, 
and that were it to do so he would be better 
off in his p&rlour than up there amid the 
falling tiles* 

Such were the man's thoughts when he 
entered the parlour and set down the candle 
upon the hare wooden table. An instant 
later he had raised it again, with the nearest 
approach to a human cry that he had uttered 
for mauv years. 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

There was a 
little rill of water 
running under the 
outer door, and 
Gideon knew that 
the flood had 
crept over the 
highlands of the 
meadows and, 
defying all tra- 
dition, had come 
to menace his 
lonely security, 


Hk set the candle 
down upon the 
table once more, 
and crossing to 
the lattice he 
opened it in a 
hush of the wind 
that was ominous 
bey ondany words. 
Then he recoiled 
from it, dumb and 
trembling — from 
the host of the 
waters, the deep, 
rushing waters 
pouring down 
from the distant 
hills, leaping 
above the river J s 
bed t whitening 
the pastures with their 
foam - the waters crying, 
"There shall be no more 
land " ; the waters which carried the 
dead derisively, blotted out the 
hedges, bent and broke the proud 
trees, gathered about the farm -build- 
ings, swept through the villages — the 
mad, victorious waters which bad come to 
his very door and must speedily engulf him. 
This Gideon knew as he drew back from the 
casement and crept toward the empty grate 
as one whose whole body had been struck 
by a sudden numbness, a chilling cold that 
palsied every limb. 

Suddenly he awoke from his trance and 
leaping up recovered in an instant the whole 
power of his faculties, No old man now 
moved about that dank place of peril ; no 
sturdy youth of twenty could have worked 
with a finer spirit or a braver will For 
Gideon had re Timbered his money, the 
lodestar of h!s Jjfe, the very rock of his 

being As in a fl*sh it had come to him 
fo Cftigmal fro it 




that if the waters invaded his house, if the 
walls fell and the flood engulfed them, then 
was he ruined both in body and in soul. 
Fool had he been to defy the river and 
boast of his security ! 

Why, the very waters, swirling about his 
feet, had awakened him from trance and 
filled his veins with this warm desire to save 
his treasure and flee with it to the hills. Yes, 
yes, he said, a strong man could yet cross the 
higher meadows and breast a road to the 

This was his sure hope, this his purpose as 
he ran from room to room, delving here and 
spying there, scattering the contents of crazy 
cabinets 3 pulling up the boards from the floor, 
thrusting his lank arms deep into the recesses 
of the walls, gathering gold and bank notes 
everywhere and pressing them to his naked 
flesh as though their very touch brought heal- 
ing. It was dawn when he had done- the 
wan light surprised 
him siitl at work ; 
it fell as a shadow 
of death upon the 
! reaped coins and 
the mouldy scrip 
— it struck upon his 
[laggard face and 
caused him to look 
up, A voice cried, 
"Hasten** — he 
knew not whence it 
came, but went to 
the window of his 
bedroom and 
opened it to all its 

And then he per- 
ceived that the 
whole valley was 
submerged, and that 
anyone who would 
pass out must cross 
a torrent so frightful 
in its impetuosity 
and in its savage 
grandeur that a hand 
of miracle alone 
could deliver him, 


C, 1 1 ikon blew out 
the candle — pity to 
waste it, even at 
Death's bidding — 
.md, going again to 
the window, he 
risked himself if this 

were indeed the end or but the vain 
imaginings of an old man's brain. 

And what a scene had day revealed 
to him ! Dead cattle went floating by 
upon the torrent of the stream — you 
could see their horns protruding from 
many a natural raft upon which they had 
sought shelter, and sought it vainly. There 
were the bodies of many creatures — sheep 
and dogs and even foxes. Birds had been 
drowned, none might say how. Many a 
farm -yard, many a park contributed to that 
surpassing scene of ruin. Trees and the 
furniture to which trees had been shaped — 
they went floating by together Rare and 
costly treasures were swirled about in the 
company of vulgar kitchen furniture 3 common 
pots and pans, that had no title to keep such 
company. Of the people of the farms, how- 
ever, Gideon could tell you nothing. There 
was a moment when he thought that he saw 





a young face looking up to him from the 
very depths of the flood. But he turned 
away shuddering, and preferred to think that 
he had not seen it. 

He would not believe in his own peril, 
and this was the plain truth. The mocking 
demon who whispered in his ear a story of 
the ultimate woe must be silenced by activity. 
How he worked in those morning hours I 
How he laboured to set his house in order ! 
What care he took to arrange his treasure 
methodically — the gold and silver in bags, 
the bank notes numbered and pinned to- 
gether, the scrip still in the iron boxes. 
Someone would put off in a boat presently 
and take him from the cottage. This he 
repeated until it became a perpetual mutter 
upon his lip* ; and he would conclude each 

new spell of activity by running to the 
window and surveying that great expanse of 
waters with eyes in whose sockets the lamp 
of death was shining, there were boats, 
truly — little black shapes moving swiftly upon 
the far horizon — but none whose rowers 
remembered so much as the name of Gideon 
Nedd. What reason had they to do so ? 
Which man among them had he befriended ? 
Which had he not sought to cajole and to rob ? 
We may w f ell imagine what the succeeding 
hours meant to this wretched man and in 
what agonies he passed them. Without pity 
himself, he craved pity now with all the 
desperation which deformed nature could 
inspire. Men will tell you that his frantic 
cries for help were heard far across the waters 
hy those w p ho rowed the boats to the homes 

more worthy. More 
than one party saw 
him at the window 
praying, cursing, 
beseeching them. 
Indeed, he seems 
to have spent his 
time running from 
room to roorr, in 
each of which he 
would throw the 
windows back wide 
upon their hinges 
and defy w T ith arms 
extended the 
raging flood below. 
As the water, ever 
pitiless, mounted 
in the valley a 
fever came upon 
him to carry his 
treasure higher, 
and he ran with 
it to the very attics, 
and thence to the 
tiled roof, hus- 
banding it by the 
chimneys and 
shrieking when the 
gold trickled out 
be t w een h i s i\ n ge rs, 
Here he lay many 
hours, a horrid 
crouching figure 
beating off death 
with arms upraised 
and crying to the 
(Jod he had for- 
gotten for the 
mercy he did not 




his nephew Rupert found him ultimately — the 
last man Gideon would have named in all 
Oxfordshire to come upon such an errand at 
such a time. 


The punt loomed up in the shadows suddenly, 
a deft paddle steering it and the fine figure of 
an honest British lad at the stern. 

" Uncle Gideon ! " the voice cried ; and 
upon that, " Where are you, Uncle Gideon ? 
Come and catch the rope — I cannot save 
you unless you help me. It is I, Rupert, in 
Dave Williams's punt. Don't you hear me, 
Uncle Gideon ? " 

Now i old Gideon, when he heard these 
words, scrambled to his feet as though a 
hand had struck him. Many a time during 
that long day had he heard phantom voices 
mocking him ; but this voice had too 
sonorous a ring in it to leave him doubting, 
and he recognised it instantly for that of 
his nephew Rupert, his sister's son, to whom 
he had not spoken a single word for five 
long years. How he had hated this lad for 
his very gifts of manliness, independence, 
and good courage ! What threats he had 
uttered against him just because Rupert had 
the pluck to tell him the trrtH and to say, 
" You are a sour old curmudgeon, who never 
did any good in the world and never will." 
Had the boy been deformed, dissolute, a 
sycophant, and a liar, Gideon would have 
liked him well enough and left him every 
penny of his hoard. But he was none of 
these things — just a light-hearted English 
boy who did not care twopence about the 
old man's wealth and openly despised his 

And it was Rupert who had now come 
over at the peril of his life to save him ; 
Rupert who steered the punt cleverly against 
the corner of the crazy house and there clung 
to the leaden gargoyle with all his strength. 
Gideon could scarce believe his senses— and 
yet deep down in his mind there burned for 
an instant a little flame of envy which 
prompted him to say, " He shall save me, but 
I will not pay him a penny for doing it." 
Men do not shed the evil in their nature 
because affliction visits them. Gideon hated 
his nephew more than ever at that moment, 
and yet he would have sacrificed half his 
fortune to be set safely ashore where the 
waters could not harm him. 

" You are a good lad, Rupert," he cried, 
"a good lad — and I shall remember this. 
Yes, I knew that you would not forget Uncle 
Gideon. Aye, what I have suffered since the 

sun rose this morning ! What sights I have 
seen, what sounds I have heard ! Nothing 
but dead people all about me— and now you 
are come and we will go away together — 
quickly, quickly, Rupert, away to the hills, 
where we shall laugh at this —oh, good lad, 
to remember old Gideon, to come to him 
when the others had forgotten." 

Thus he chattered, half mad with the 
sudden joy of it and wholly unable to realize 
the perils which lay before him. A strong man 
still, for his penurious habits had made him 
that, he caught the rope which Rupert threw 
to him and moored the punt with a skill and 
dexterity worthy of a youth. The waters had 
now risen almost to the level of the attics 
below him ; he perceived that the force 
of the torrent was broken a little here 
by the higher meadow-land ; nevertheless, it 
caught the punt and drove it against the 
brick-work as though to crush it of very spite. 
There was not an instant to be lost, and so 
Rupert told him. 

"If you would save your life, uncle, come 
at once," he said. " Let the sun go down, 
and there will be no to-morrow for any out 
in boats this night. Put your hands upon my 
shoulders, and I will help you down. What 
does anything matter when the waters are 
out. Oh, come at once, for God's sake ! " 

Old Gideon answered him by taking his 
money-bags one by one and throwing them 
do*wn into the punt. He did not offer any 
explanation, nor was any needed. Rupert 
knew perfectly well that the old man had 
dragged his fortune to the roof, and was 
making this last desperate effort to save it. 
A smile, in truth, rested upon his face as the 
bags came thumping down and the iron 
boxes crashed upon the wooden boards 
about him. Who ashore would buy this 
hoard at any price to-night, he asked him- 
self. Why, an instant's blundering, and it 
would be overboard, washed out by the flood. 

They were off at last, loosening the rope 
through their fingers and letting the punt 
grate against the eaves until the open water 
caught her and she was swirled onward in 
the torrent's full embrace. Now, for a truth, 
old Gideon understood why the lad had 
spoken of haste and what the meaning of his 
fearful words had been. Here, in the open, 
the waters raged as though every spirit of 
storm and tempest had been loosed upon 
them. A foaming, seething torrent raced 
down toward Oxford as though the flood- 
gates of an ocean had been opened. Over 
fields and hedges, by submerged farms, hill 
and date.rto be recognised.ijo more, so that 

9 6 


desperate voyage went. They were going 
out, it would seem, to the very whirlpool of 
the flood. Thither the lad tried to steer 
them ; that was the madness of which the old 
man accused him. 

"To the left, Rupert— to the hills/' he 
would cry again and again ; u yon is the river 
— we shall drown there. What are you 
doing, boy? — to the left, I tell you* Are 
you gone mad, then — do you not see where 
the waters are?" 

Rupert, straining at a monstrous paddle, 
answered as calmly : — 

" 1 am going to Farmer Weston's. He 
and Linney are there. I am going to take 
them ashore with us." 

Gideon started up and faced him with 
blazing eyes. 

not Linney looking across the waters, 
waiting for him to come to her ? All that day 
he had watched her house afar, wondering 
that none went to her help, and helpless 
himself because he had no boat Now, how- 
ever, he accepted the call as one he would 
not have passed by for a kings ransom. None 
but he knew what terrible woe and despair 
had wrung his heart that bitter day — but 
they were forgotten by this time, for the 
danger drove them out and he went upon 
his way as though some clear star of his 
love stood in the heavens to guide him to 
Linneys side- As for this gibbering old 
maniac, Rupert wondered that he had the 
patience to hear him at all 

" 1 am going to save Linney and her 
father," he rejoined, calmly; "everyone seems 


"What is he to us? Is he more than 
life? Do you not see that the boat will sink ? 
What are these folk to us ? Ho, ho ! a pretty 
face grinning at the window, And there is 
death below — death, I tell you. To the 
hills, lad ; I will kill vou if you disobey 

Rupert did not pay the smallest attention 
to him, but continued to steer the punt 
toward the open, where, as it seemed in the 
very vortex of the current, an old red farm- 
house stood up proudly. When Gideon tried 
to snatch the paddle from I he lad's hand, he 
thrust him back with a young giant's strength 
and resumed his task as though it were the 
most ordinary thing in the world to do. Was 

to have forgotten them, but I have not for- 
gotten. All this day I watched from the hifl 
and saw that no boat went near them. What 
does it matter? I must go to them whatever 
happens to me/' 

Gideon sank back upon the boards with a 
low cry of despair. 

" You will drown, lad— you are mad," he 
said. il No boat such as this could live in 
yon waters. They will find your body 
beyond Oxford city to-morrow. Will a pretty 
lace help you then ? " 

i( I shall have done my best — no one can 
do more than that. Please to keep still, 
uncle. It is you who are foolish to think 
that I woulPwaff **H?. m We shall be there 




in a few minutes. Linney is waiting for me, 
and I must go to her." 

He plunged the paddle once more into the 
boiling torrent and turned the punt's head 
toward the distant farm. Old Gideon, more 
afraid than ever he had been in all his life, 
crouched upon the wet floor and fell to 
muttering incoherent words that might have 
been an incantation against the desperate 
madness of the deed. 

Well for old Farmer Weston that his house 
stood upon good high land. He would still 
be safe in the upper rooms, and toward these 
Rupert drove the whirling punt, every muscle 
taut to the task, his eyes upon the distant 
goal, as though turned toward the gates of 

"The water is above the ricks, uncle," he 
exclaimed, as the farm came at last clear to 
their view. " We must steer by them and 
make for the porch above the hall. I can see 
Linney at the window now. There are two 
or three people there, and she is waving to 
me. Do you throw them a rope when we 
come up. That won't keep us a minute, and 
we'll let the punt drift afterwards and try to 
make for Mr. Siever's gardens. His house 
will be above this, you know, and we might 
land upon one of the terraces. I'm glad to 
see Linney. You don't know what things 
I've been telling myself about her, and there 
she is, looking not a hit frightened, because 
she knew I was coming for her. Now, weren't 
you wrong to wish me to turn back, 
uncle ? " 

Gideon made no reply He was all hunched 
up in the middle of the boat, his money-bags 
about him ; and there he sat muttering like 
an ogre, his face black with angry thoughts, 
his hands itching to snatch the paddle and to 
steer madly for that distant haven of the 
hills, which tempted his eyes perpetually. 

Rupert, therefore, had to manage all this 
affair by his own wit, and right bravely he 
acquitted himself, despite the craven he had 
taken aboard. Never was a coxswain in a race 
cooler or more level-headed than he while 
he steered the punt across the rushing stream 
and brought it deftly alongside old Weston's 
porch. Despising Gideon's help, he himself 
took the painter in his hand and climbed 
with it to the little balcony on which Linney 
stood. It was a moment they would never 

" I saw you from the hills, and the hours 

were a torture," he said ; and then in a breath 

he asked her, u What has happened ? Why 

did no one come for you ? Oh, Linney, if 

you had known — if you had only known 
Vol. xxxvi-i? 

what it has been ! And now we are all safe 
together — my little girl, my dearest." 

There were tears upon the girl's face, but 
they were tears of gladness. The old farmer 
could not utter a single word of thanks, so 
overcome was he. The trembling maid- 
servant blubbered aloud for joy. To each of 
them Rupert said, " We must go at once ; 
there is not a moment to lose," and then, 
running again to the porch, he would have 
drawn the punt nearer for them to embark at 
their ease. So it was he discovered the 
truth. Gideon Nedd had cut the cord, and 
man and boat were already gone from his 

Thus, indeed, it happened, and thus were 
those four people left at the farm, the floods 
still rising around them, and night coming 
down as though to hide them from the eyes 
of the living. 


The water swept through the lower rooms 
of the farm like a mill-race, but there were 
stout timbers above which offered a brave 
resistance and would yet save the inmates if 
the ftood rose no higher. Old Weston, one 
of the bravest hearts in Oxfordshire, did but 
shrug his shoulders when he ran over to con- 
firm Rupert's story -and, as for the girls, 
they believed it to be but a momentary acci- 
dent which would speedily be repaired. The 
rope had slipped and the boat drifted away. 
Well, was there not a man in charge of it and 
would not he make haste to return ? 

11 He always was the greatest rogue out of 
Newgate," the farmer said aside to Rupert — 
and then in a gentler voice, " It is not so 
much for myself as for the girls. He have 
no more heart in his body than a heathen, 
and that be the truth of it Why, I wouldn't 
treat a dog so, as I'm a living man. And 
he to leave us here and the flood still 
rising ! Well, Rupert, lad, we must make 
the best on't. Won't do to show the white 
feather before Linney, poor lass. Do you tell 
her some tale or another and Til stand here, 
forby the old villain should come back. A 
pretty thing to hope for, that. He be half- 
way to Oxford, sure and certain." 

Rupert admitted that it must be so. Very 
quietly and without any fuss he told Linney 
that the rope had broken and the punt drifted 

"The rope's slipped, you know, Linney, 
and there'll be trouble to get the punt round 
again. Don't you fret about it, dear ; your 
father and I will find a way out somewhere. 
Now, just be my brave little girl and go and 

9 8 


make us some tea. This old house has 
laughed at many a flood, and she'll laugh 
with the bravest to-night. Trust my word 
for that, dear ; we'll be in Oxford to-morrow 
night, and you know what that means. Eh, 
Linney, don't you remember what you 
promised me when we go to Oxford 
together? There'll be no Linney Weston 
then, but just my brave little wife, who 
never was afraid in all her life, and is not 
going to be afraid to-night." 

He kissed her very gently on the forehead, 
knowing well how little he believed the words 
he spoke. Even Red Farm, as the old house 
was called, could hardly stand out against 
such an onslaught as this. Why, the very 
floors heaved to the rushing waters, the walls 
trembled, the foundations were quivering. 
Let a few hours go by, let the river breast 
those beams on which they stood, and the 
whole fabric must collapse as a house of 
cards. None knew this better than Rupert, 
nor did any so rage in his heart when he 
remembered the trick that had been played. 
That monster of a man, that devil in human 
shape — was he any better than a common 
murderer, to leave gentle women to this 
fate, to save himself and his dirty money 
when the worst of men would have turned 
back ? 

Rupert swore that if he lived he would 
avenge the night. The agony that he suffered 
was for one whom he loved best on earth, 
and there is no human grief to surpass such 
mental torture as that. 

They took their tea in the front bedroom 
of the farm, and gathered afterwards upon 
the porch of the house, setting a candle upon 
the window-sill and crying out from time to 
time lest any rescue party were abroad. The 
night had turned wondrously silent, with a 
glorious canopy of stars above, and a great 
golden moon to make lakes of light upon 
the eddying waters. Everywhere the scene 
was so unfamiliar that even Farmer Weston 
could make nothing of it. 

"The very hills have moved," he would 
say ; " this be a new world for me. Aye, 
children, that things should change so — and 
we the happiest people in all England three 
days ago. Well, God's will be done. 'Tis 
not in us to alter the Divine Providence, 
whatever it may be." 

He called them all to the window, for in 
his heart he believed that the end was near 
and that the old house must speedily be 

Taking his seat upon the parapet, whereby 
the strean) raced joyously as though in 

triumph of its victories, he put his arm 
about Linney's waist and bade her sing 
to him. 

"The old hymn, lass, that I have loved 
all my life — sing the old hymn and let the 
waters hear." 

She obeyed him, giving Rupert her hand 
to hold, and looking out wistfully upon the 
golden night. Very sweetly the familiar 
words, " O, God, Our Help in Ages Past," 
went ringing across the waters, at once a 
dirge and a prayer which should be answered 
or be hushed as Fate inscrutable alone could 
determine. And when the hymn was sung 
all sat very silent for a full hour, watching the 
creeping waters and knowing that the end 
was very near. 

Rupert was the first to break in upon this 
terrible silence, and he did so standing up 
and shading his eyes, that he might the better 
pierce the shadows. Fearful almost of his 
own vision, he asked the farmer presently 
whether or no his eyes cheated him, and, 
receiving a vague answer, he remained there, 
none the less, a black figure in the aureole, a 
man who trembled lest the night deceived 
him and the worst were unknown. 

11 Yonder ! " he cried ; " what is that 
yonder, farmer ? " 

"Tis the shadow of the old barn upon 
the waters, Rupert." 

" God send that it be something else. 
Give me your hand, farmer ; I am going up 
to the roof above." 

Farmer Weston, trembling like a child, 
helped him up to the dormer window, and 
counted ten full seconds before he spoke 

u Is aught there to see, Rupert, lad ? " 

" I cannot tell you, Mr. Weston ; wait now 
awhile. There's something afloat between 
the eaves of the barn — I'm going over to 

Again a spell of silence. The farmer cried, 
i: Go careful, lad, for Linney's sake." He did 
not dare to speak to his daughter ; did not 
dare to look at her. But she was by his 
side when Rupert spoke again, and her 
eyes were wet with tears when they heard 
his voice. 

" The boat is here, farmer. Come you 
and give me a hand. The boat is here, 1 
say — we are saved, as sure as God's in 

Farmer Weston climbed to the roof with- 
out a word. The punt was there, as Rupert 
had declared it to be. But of Gideon Nedd, 





Of the miser's end none will ever tell the 
story* No man knows how he died or by 
what irony of the waters his fortune was 
engulfed. Many victims of that memor- 
able flood there were, but none whose death 
was so little mourned. He had striven to 
save his life, and, striving, had lost it. True, 
there is a tradition of a bag of gold being 
dragged from the river some months 

Digitized by VjOOgie 

afterwards ; and romantic youths hunt 
the fields to this day for the treasure 
that was lost. Rupert, upon his part, has 
long forgotten it. " Twould have brought 
no luck/' he says, and that is the common 

For Rupert has riches enough in his cottage 
amid the hills— and there the river's gift lies 
close to his heart, priceless beyond ~"v 
treasure thaufitipipi^l coaUi win, 


General view of Hie collection as it stands to-day — note the Leather*covered organ on the left. 

An Inquisition in Leather. 


With Photographs by the Autk&r* 

*jSk3j^ Iff 6* ^" 

T was in an antique shop in 
the purlieus of Westminster 
that I first met him — a 
pleasant-laced little old gentle- 
man who might have stepped 
out of a page of Dickens — 
whose years ran well into the allotted span. 
He was ccntem plating with no small degree 
of satisfaction the latest acquisition to his 
store of treasures — a devil, no less, life-sized 
and fashioned of leather The workmanship 
was exquisite, the appearance fearsome and 

"This, I think f completes the collection/' 
said he, contemplatively, as he stood back to 
better survey his prize. 

Sitting, for we were neither of us pressed 
for time, he told me a wonderful story — a tale 
of the Spanish Inquisition, of Ferdinand and 
Isabella, and of Torquemada, the Inquisitor- 
General of impious memory. The sinister 
effigy standing by was, he said, a relic of that 
barbarous institution, the evil works of w] 
were unequalka by even Nuremberg or Lhe 

massacres of St, Bartholomew's Day. The 
figure before us was, I learnt, but one of 
nearly a thousand pieces of wondrous design 
and marvellous craftsmanship, the last of 
which he now believed had passed into his 
hands. Their age, he calculated, would be 
about four hundred years. they stood 
originally in the council chamber of the 
Inquisitors at Lisbon, but of the fact concern- 
ing their removal to England there was no 
record. The only thing that was known 
regarding them in this respect was that they 
were removed from Lisbon In the early 
part of the seventeenth century by one Don 
Carlos Sebastian, a pirate, whose last will and 
testament my antiquarian friend still holds. 

In this will the erstwhile freebooter boldly 
confesses that he stole the efiigies, but how, 
when, or where, he leaves to the imagination. 
It is possible that the gruesome collection 
was being conveyed by sea to some unknown 
port, when the slow- sailing merchantmen of 
the period ^f&wifM-lefBaOled by the speedier 
piratitttll fcriftX^t^ii^OM l©^W Carlos. On 



the other hand, they may have been stolen 
from Lisbon itself. They may have been 
seized upon whilst being carried in pro- 
cession, or the dark chamber of the arch- 
Inquisitors may have been raided in the dead 
of night and the relics in this way removed, 
But whatever their history there is no doubt 
that they were in the possession of the 
buccaneer, I >on Carlos, by the middle of the 
seventeenth century. 

The will -in which he disposes of them h 
a quaint and curious document. It is dated 
1650. In lettering still quite distinct it 
commences, " I, Carlos Don Sebastian," and 
passes on to say that 
he was a pirate by 
profession, In many 
curious phrases he 
expresses regret for a 
mis - spent life, and 
concludes a remark 
able screed by be- 
queathing, inter alia^ 
the hundreds of In- 
quisition relics to a 
James Allinson, of 
Nespra Hall, York, 
Inquiries have been made, 
but Nespra Hall no longer 
exists, and antiquarians 
are still engaged in en 
deavouring to solve the 
mystery of the legatee. 
All that is known is that 
James Allinson, of Nespra 
Hall, was a soldier^ a* 
country gentlemen were, 
more or less, in the seven 
teenth century, but tt 1 
relationship which existed 
between James Allinson 
the soldier and Don Carlos 
Sebastian the pirate is by 
no means so clear. Allin- 
son died intestate, and in 
the course of time the 
whole of the collection 
passed into the Court of Chancery. There 
it remained for many a long year, until the 
property came into the possession of some- 
one unknown, who, through the medium of 
a mysterious third party, sold the relics to 
the present owner. 

The story of how they came into his 
possession is no less weird than the objects 
themselves. One day a strange, rough locking 
man came ami offered the model of an ancient 
Spanish galleon, worked in leather, for sale. 
The venerable connoisseur, recognising the 

value of the relic, purchased it at once In 
guarded terms the stranger inquired if the 
purchase of any further lots of like value 
would be considered, A bargain was struck, 
and as a result, during a period extending 
over twelve years, bit by bit, the whole unique 
collection has passed into the bands of my 
friend, the last only a few weeks ago. The 
effigies always arrived in the dead of the 
night. Unexpected, still heartily welcomed, 
a ring would come at the bell in the small 
hours, and the connoisseur would be invited 
to come down from bed, to look at one nr 
more pieces that lay, straw-covered, in the 

bottom of a farmer's 
cart that stood at the 
door, A bargain would 
be struck, the pieces 
removed, and the 
carter would dis- 
appear, perhaps for 
months. Presently he 
would bob up again in 
the same mysterious 
manner, sometimes 
with a huge piece that 
filled a wagon, at others 
with a single piece that 
could be carried in the 
hand. Never by any 
chance would the carter 
say from whom or whence 
he came ; only once did 
he admit in the course of 
bargaining that he had to 
go forty miles every time 
to fetch the images. 

On one occasion the 
purchaser endeavoured 
to solve the mystery for 
himself. In the dead of 
night he followed on foot 
the cart that had deposi- 
ted the latest treasure at 
his door, Through West- 
minster to the City and 
Whitechapel the carter 
drove, until in Brick Lane, Spitalfields, he 
pulled up to stay the remainder of the night. 
In the same house sat my friend awaiting the 
dawn and a continuance of the journey. 
Dropping off to sleep, however, he awoke to 
find the carter gone, and there the quest ended. 
It was in this strangely romantic way that 
the whole of what is believed to be the 
unique collection passed into the hands of 
the gentleman who now owns them, Quite 

LJt,i| ilia >r uperunn into 1J1* Sjtoei Chumber 
1 hi- Inqtibttioii at Lisbon* 


>U h 

es 1 WereT Kdfr 

f^ipises in which 
[1 in, and the 



The original table around which the marked Inquisitors sat. 
Tlie figure in the centre is holding n canrieln^rum. AloiiiiMtV is 
a model of a Spanish ^allr on in leather used a* a Wide decanter. 

collection had to be removed A large hall 
was therefore built, and in it today are 
arranged the Inquisition relics in something 
of their original and fearsome splendour 
The building itself is more like a huge 
strong room than a mere warehouse, for 
the collection is looked upon by those who 
have seen it as an extremely valuable one. 
Roughly estimated, its worth has been set 
down at thirty thousand pounds. 

An invitation to inspect the relics was 
immediately accepted, so, hailing a taxi cab, 
we drove off, my friend and I, to the south 
side of the river. At length we drew up 
before a small dwelling house, which we 
entered through the basement Carefully 
unlocking the outer door with a number of 
keys, and as carefully locking it when it had 
closed again, we passed through various 
vaults to the place which had been built to 
accommodate the relics. 

The last of the strong room doors opened 
and then clanged behind us. And what a 
sight ! On all sides were devils, and gnomes, 
and hideous faces, grim -hooded Inquisitors, 
must mess, and an awful silence, Here, in 
the throbbing heart of London, we stood, as 
it were, alone in the presence of the dead 

past. To describe the scene as it presented 
itself to me is somewhat difficult. To com- 
mence with, everything in the chamber was 
of leather. Leather deadens sound, as the 
Supreme Council well knew. The floor, the 
walls, the ceiling, the very door itself and its 
internal fittings were of beautifully- worked 
skin in an excellent state of preservation. In 
the centre was the table, ten feet long by 
eight feet wide, leather covered, and sup- 
ported by ten cowled monks, fashioned of 
the same material to the most minute detail. 
The chairs that were drawn up to the table 
were life-sized figures in a sitting position, 
with hands at rest on staves. The occupant 
of the chair would have to sit in the lap of 
the figure, the arms of which provide the 
arms of the chair. Several settees on the 
same principle stood round. At the end 
of the room was the presidential chair, from 
which Torquemada and his successors no 
doubt conducted their ghastly business. On 
each side stood or her chairs of equally 
marvellous design 
and workman 
ship, that were 
occupied at one 
time, very pos- 
sibly, by the two 

Judging from 
the feelings of 
horror that the 
sight of the relics 
inspire even to- 
day, the pro- 
cedure of the 
Holy Office, as 
arranged by Tor 
quemada, must 
have thoroughly 
succeeded in its 
purpose of terrify 
ing all who came 
within its meshes. 
It will be remem- 
bered that, when 
once the mem- 
bers of the council 
had given their 
opinion, it was 
usual to remove 
the prisoner to a 
secret prison in 
the building, 
Theie he was cut 
off from all corn 
mu meat ion w it&in 
the out " 

A devilish device for terrifying the 
vii-itTriK of ilu- rinjnkiriiHo. VYh**n 
pawing f-niin the Llun^ean to the 
Secret Chamber, :i iiyure seven feet 
rn^h stood in itie way, A secret 
jrtririE pulled by someone un^ce-n 

ifTfil^nV 1 * * W(jr ^ " arr " smartly 
awn^Tffini evil results t<> whoever 





*i^a leather cul]eajju^ v*iih 
in , 1 r 1 1 m..",.- njirri. N..r<- tfi<- 
pistol showing ii&ir L he ' ..c t- nn 
fi|i, A "were 1 string in thk 
c-ise fired The pisiol as the 
prisoner puKtt. 

In the " audiences 11 
that followed, in (he 
original of the cham- 
ber in which we then 
Stood, it struck me 
how easy it must have 
been to wring almost 
any "confession " 
from the unfortunate 
victim by the aid of 
such impedimenta as 
this, Many of the 
|]^E tortures were diaboli- 
cally ingenious. After 
a few such " audi- 
ences" it is difficult 
to believe that any 
survived for the ulti- 
mate auto de fe\ 

All round the room 
stood devils and 
d ragon s, angel s an d 
elves, all gloriously 
mixed up, speaking, 
mutely though it be, 
of a dead art and a 
dead superstition, On 
either side of the 
door we entered 
stood a doorkeeper 
of massive proportions with a fiendish 
expression on his leather face. The right 
arm was uplifted, the hand gripping a 
long, rusty sword as though to strike. With 
devilish ingenuity it had been so fashioned 
that on pulling a string the arm falls rapidly, 
when anyone passing must receive an ugly 
cut, Opposite the swordsman stood his leather 
colleague, with mouth wide open, as though " 
in the act of shouting. Right at the back of 
the throat is fitted a pistol, which, like the 
sword arm of the opposite figure, is operated 
by a string. One can well imagine the terror 
that would seize on the wretched prisoner, 
who, by the time he had run the gauntlet of 
a corridor full of such as these, would be 
ready to confess anything ! Another devilish 
device was embodied in the effigy of a 
life-size Mephistopheles — Satan, wirh forked 
tongue and tail and huge wings, all in red 
morocco, who carried in front of him a box, 
much as one would hold a snap-shot camera. 
From the front protruded a serpent's head, 
sufficiently terrible in itself. A secret string in 
this case also liberated some four feet of the 
body of the snake concealed within, which 
springs out at one with a realism too nerve- 
shattering to describe. 

Side by side wiLh red gnomes making 

horrible grimaces hung the lovely figures of 
angels, the idea apparently being to convey 
to the untutored an impression of the joy or 
sorrow of the hereafter. One of the most 
beautiful and artistic pieces of the whole 
collection was that representing Old Father 
Time. Just as he is depicted to-day, so 
the Spaniards of nearly five centuries ago 
imagined him. Resting on his scythe with 
his left arm, in the right hand he held an 
hour-glass. Over his head was a chariot with 
galloping horses, a clock face taking the 
place of the wheel and recording the passing 
hour. The clock still keeps excellent time, 
although it is not often set going. 

Another fine piece of work was a leather 
dragon, perfect in detail — so perfect, in- 
deed, that one would imagine it to be of 
curiously-wrought metals. The dragon was 
engaged in the pastime of flogging his 
Satanic Majesty with a seven-thonged whip, 
composed of serpents. On each side of a 
huge leather sideboard, on which were a 
number of leather tankards or beakers, were 
a male and a female devil, life sized, holding 
aloft, as in the act of throwing awny, the 


r.ifncr ri'a£. 



A male and - female devil thio^ing victim* to perdition, Fror 
gold coins ire falling, from the woman's a goblet of wine U 

body of a man. From the uplifted glass of 
one the wine was being spilt, from the finders 
of the other coins were falling to the ground. 
On the other hand, curiously jumbled up 
with satyrs and dragons and evil -looking 
personages or unknown degree, were some 
beautiful specimens, rich with suggestion. 

representative of the life of 
Christ Jesus entering Jeru- 
salem on an ass was an exquisite 
piece of work. Another strik- 
ing group was that of Mary, 
seated also on an ass, with the 
infant Saviour in her lap, By 
the side walked Joseph, leading 
the animal, and a little lamb 
accompanied the {ttrty. Christ 
on the cross and a Crusader in 
armour were not the least im- 
posing pieces of the collection, 
For an hour and a half I 
wandered round amid these 
relics of a long forgotten past, 
irresistibly attracted by the un- 
canniness of the place. Sitting 
on the leathern knees of a 
dummy, where grim, bemasked 
Inquisitors once sat, with the 
eye of faith one could almost 
discern Torque mada in the 
chair of state, from which he was wont to 
terrorize and send to the stake all whose 
religious or political convictions were not 
those of the persecuting elect. There they 
stand, grinning and weeping as they have 
grinned and wept forages, absurd, monstrous, 
yet beautiful withal 

n the raan'i hind 
betng spilt. 

Relic* w enrried in (jror^^ioji iWu^h the str<j<H^ of Lisbon pri Qr |o an attto*de*ft. 

C^rtonl fc Original from 






HREE days, because there had 
been a quarrel. But days pass 
quickly when the sun shines, 
and it is holiday time, and you 
have a big ruined castle to 
explore and examine — a castle 
that is your own — or your brother's. 

"After all," said Elfrida, sensibly, "we 
might quite likely find the treasure ourselves, 
without any magic mouldiwarpiness at all 
We'll look thoroughly. We won't leave a 
stone unturned," 

So they climbed the steep, worn stairs that 
wound round and round in the darkness- 
stairs Uttered with dead leaves and mould 
and dropped feathers and the dry, deserted 
nests of owls and jackdaws. 

Then there were arched doors that led to 
colonnades with strong little pillars and 
narrow windows, wonderful little unexpected 
chambers and corners — the best place In the 
whole wide world for serious and energetic 

"I've got an idea/' said Edred, "if we 
could get back to where the castle was all 
perfect like a model and draw pictures of 

VuL x***L —14. C^pyri^ht , 1908, toy 


every part, Then when we found the trea- 
sure we should know exactly what to build it 
up like, shouldn't we?" 

* Yes," she said, M let's begin now 1T 

\nd you'll have to lend me one of your 
pencils," said he, (i because I broke mine all 
to fails trying to get the parlour door open 
the day you'd got the key in your pocket" 

So they got large sheets of writing paper, 
and brown calf bound books for the paper to 
lie flat on, and they started to draw Arden 
Castle- And as Elfrida tried to draw every- 
thing she knew was there, as well as every- 
thing she could see, her drawing soon became 
almost entirely covered with black-lead. 

"Oh," cried Edred, jump! tig upand dropping 
his masterpiece and the calf-bound volume 
and the pencil, "7 know. The Brownie!" 

"The Brownie?" 

"Yes — take it with us. "Then we could 
photograph the castle all perfect." 

This intelligent idea commanded Elfrida's 
respect, and she wished she had thought of 
it herself. So she said : — 

" You're getting quite clever, aren't you ? " 

"Aha," said Edred, "you'd like to have 
thought of that yourself, wouldn't you ? I 
can be clever sometimes, same as you can." 

It is very annoying to have our thoughts 
rend, Elfrida said, swiftly, "Not often you 
can't," and then stopped short. In a 
moment the children stood looking at each 
other with a very peculiar expression. Then 
a sigh of relief broke from each* 

"Fielded !" said Edred. 

" Just in time ! " said Elfrida. u It wasn't 
a quarrel ; nobody could say it was a quarrel. 
Come on, Jet's go and look at the cottages, 



They went They made a tour of inspec 
tion that day, and the next and the next. 
And they saw a great many things that a 
grown-up inspector would never have seen. 
Poor people are very friendly and kind to 
you when you are a child. They will let 
you come into their houses, and talk to you 
and show you things in a way that they 
would never condescend to do with your 
grown-up relations. This is, of course, if you 
are a really nice child, and treat them in a 
respectful and friendly way. 

And when they weren't visiting the cottages 
or exploring the castle they found a joyous 
way of passing the time in the reading aloud 
of the history of Arden. They took it in 
turns to read aloud. Elfrida looked carefully 
for some mention of Sir Edward Talbot and 
his pretending to be the Chevalier St. George. 
There was none, but a Sir Edward Talbot 
had been accused, with the Lord Arden of 
the time, of plotting against His Most 
Christian Majesty King James I. 

"I wonder if he was like my Edward 
Talbot?" said Elfrida. "1 would like to 
see him again. I wish I'd told him 
about us having been born so many 
years after he died. But it would have 
been difficult to explain, wouldn't 
it? Let's look in Green's His- 
tory Book and see what they 
looked like when it was His 
Most Christian Majesty King 
James the First." 

Perhaps it was this which 
decided the children, when the 
three days were over, to put on 
the clothes which most resem- 
bled the ones in the pic- 
tures of James I.'s time 
in Green's History. 

Edred had full breeches, 
puffed out like balloons, 
and a steeple-crowned hat, 
and a sort of tunic of 
crimson velvet, and a big 
starched ruff round his 
little neck more uncomfort- 
able even than your Eton 
collar is after you've been wear- 
ing flannels for days and days. 
And Elfrida had long, tight 
stays with a large, flat-shaped 
piece of wood down the front, 
and very full long skirts over 
a very abrupt hoop. 

When the three days were over 
the door of the attic, which, as 
usual after a quarrel, had been 

quite invisible and impossible to find, had 
become as plain as the nose on the face 
of the plainest person you know, and the 
children had walked in, and looked in the 
chests till they found what they wanted. 

While they were dressing Elfrida held the 
Brownie camera tightly, in one hand or the 
other. This made dressing rather slow and 
difficult, but the children had agreed that if it 
were not done the Brownie would be, as 
Edred put it, " liable to vanish," as everything 
else belonging to their own time always did 
— except their clothes. I can't explain to 
you just now how it was that their clothes 
didn't vanish. It would take too long. 

And now a very odd thing happened. As 
Edred put on his second shoe — which was 
the last touch to their united toilets— the 

"the \va 


'rigid 4b td^BBED." 




walls seemed to tremble and shake and go 
crooked, like a house of cards at the very 
instant before it topples down. The floor 
slanted to that degree that standing on it was 
so difficult as to be at last impossible. The 
rafters all seemed to get crooked and mixed 
like a box of matches when you spill them on 
the floor. The tiled roof that showed blue 
daylight through seemed to spin like a top, 
and you could not tell at all which way up 
you were. All this happened with dreadful 
suddenness, but almost as soon as it had 
begun it stopped with a jerk like that of a 
clockwork engine that has gone wrong. 
And the attic was gone — and the chests, and 
the blue-chinked tiles of the roof, and the 
walls and the rafters And the room had 
shrunk to less than half its old size. And it 
was higher, and it was not an attic any more, 
but a round room with narrow windows, 
and just such a fireplace, with a stone hood, 
as the ones the children had seen when they 
looked down from the tops of the towers. 

"/see," said Edred, when breath enough 
for speech had returned to him. " This is 
the place where the attic was after the tower 
fell to pieces." 

" But there isn't any attic, really," said 
Elfrida. " You know we can't find it if we've 
quarrelled, and Mrs. Honeysett doesn't ever 
find it. It isn't anywhere." 

" Yes, it is," said Edred. " We couldn't 
find it if it wasn't." 

"Well," said Elfrida, gloomily, "I only 
hope we may find it, that's all. I suppose 
-we may as well go out. It's no use sticking 
in this horrid little room." Her hand was on 
the door, but even as she fumbled with the 
latch, which was of iron and of a shape to 
which she was wholly unaccustomed, some- 
thing else happened, even more disconcerting 
than the turn-over-change in which the attic 
and the chests had disappeared. It is very 
difficult to describe. Perhaps you happen to 
dislike travelling in trains with your back to 
the engine ? If you do dislike it you dislike 
it very much indeed. 

The sensations which now held Edred and 
Elfrida were exactly those which— if you 
don't like travelling backwards — you know 
only too well — and the sensations were so 
acute that both children shut their eyes. 
When the two children opened their eyes 
it was in a room which Edred at least had 
never seen before. To Elfrida it seemed 
strange yet familiar. The shape of the room, 
the position of doors and windows, the 
mantelpiece with its curious carvings — these 
she knew. And some of the furniture, too. 

Yet the room seemed bare — barer than it 
should have been. But why should it look 
bare — barer than it should have been — 
unless she knew how much less bare it 
once was ? Unless, in fact, she had seen it 
before ? 

" Oh, I know," she cried, standing in her 
stiff skirts and heavy shoes in the middle of 
the room. " I know. This is Lord Arden's 
town house. This is where I was with 
Cousin Betty. Only there aren't such nice 
chairs and things, and it was full of people 

Edred remained silent, his mouth half open 
and his eyes half shut in a sort of trance of 

" I don't like it," he began. " Let's go 
back. I don't like it. And we didn't take 
the photograph. And I don't like it. And 
my clothes are horrid. I feel something 
between a balloon and a Bluecoat boy. And 
you've no idea how silly you look — like Mrs. 
Noah out of the Ark, only tubby. And I 
don't know who we're supposed to be. And 
I don't suppose this is Arden House. And 
if it is, you don't know when. Suppose it's 
Inquisition times, and they put us on the 
stake ? Let's go back ; I don't like it," he 

" Now you just listen," said Elfrida, knit- 
ting her brows under the queer cap she wore. 
" I know inside me what I mean, but you 
won't unless you jolly well attend." 

" Fire ahead." 

" Well, then, even if it was Inquisition 
times it would be all right — for us." 

" How do you know ? " 

" I don't know how I know, but I know 
I do know," said Elfrida, firmly. "You 
see, Tve been here before. It's not real, 
you see." 

" It is" said Edred, kicking the leg of 
the table. 

Elfrida frowned. Afterwards she was glad 
that she had done no more than frown. It 
is dangerous, as you know, to quarrel in a 
boat, but far more dangerous to quarrel in a 
century that is not your own. She frowned 
and opened her mouth. And just as her 
mouth opened the door of the room followed 
its example, and a short, dark, cross looking 
woman in a crimson skirt and strange cap 
came hurrying in. 

"So it's here you've hidden yourselves!" 
she cried. " And I looking high and low to 
change your dress." 

"What for?" said Edred, for it was his 
arm which she had quite ungently caught. 

"tftoafem- &Nffitaf he dragged him 



out of the room. "Why, to attend my lord 
your father and your lady mother at the 
masque at Whitehall Had you forgot 
already? And thou so desirous to attend 
them in thy new white velvet broidered with 
the orange-tawny, and thy lady mother's 
diamond buckles, and the silken cloak, and 
the shoe-roses, and the cobweb-lawn starched 
ruff, and the little sword, and alL JJ 

The woman had dragged Rdred out of the 
room and up the stairs by this time. Elfrida, 
following, decided that her speech was the 
harshest part of her. 

"If she was really horrid/' thought the girl, 
"she wouldn't try to cheer him up with velvet 
and swords and diamond buckles*" 

" Can't / go ? J? she said, aloud* 

The woman turned and slapped her — not 
hard, but smartly, ** I told thee how it would 
be if thou wouldst not hold that 
dunning tongue. No ; thou can't go. 
Little ladies stay at home and sew 
their samplers. Thoult go to Court 
soon enough, I warrant/ 1 

So Elfrida sat and watched while 
Ed red was partially washed — the 
soap got in his eyes just as h gets 
in yours nowadays — and dressed in 
the beautiful white page's dress, 
white velvet, diamond buckles, little 
sword, and all 

14 You are splendid/' she said. 
* £ Oh, I do wish I was a hoy," she 
added, for perhaps the two thou- 
sand and thirty-second time in her 
short life. 

" It's not that you'll be wishing 
when your time comes to go to 
Court," said the woman. *' There, 
my little lord, give thy old nurse a 
kiss and stand very cautious and 
perfect, not to soil thy fine feathers, 
And when thou hearest thy mother's 
robes on the stairs go out and 
make thy bow like thy tutor taught 
thee. ,J 

It was not Ed red's tutor who had 
taught him to bow. But when a 
rustling of silks sounded on the 
stairs he was able to go out and 
make a very creditable obeisance 
to the stately magnificence that 
swept down towards him. Elfrida 
thought it best to curtsy beside 
her brother. Aunt Edith had 
taught them to dance the minuet, 
and somehow the bow and curtsy 
which belong to that dance seemed 
the right thing now. And the lady 

on the stairs smiled, well pleased* She was 
a wonder fully -dressed lady. Her bodice was 
of yellow satin, richly embroidered ; her 
petticoat of gold tissue, with stripes ; her 
robe of red velvet, lined with yellow muslin 
with stripes of pure gold. She had a point 
lace apron and a collar of while satin under 
a delicately-worked ruff And she was a 
blaze of beautiful jewels. 

"Thou'rt a fine page, indeed, my dear 
son," said the lady. li Stand aside and take 
my train as I pass, And thou* dear daughter, 
so soon as thouVt of an age for it. thou shalt 
have a train and a page to carry 1 it." 

She swept on, and the children followed. 
Eord Arden was in the hall, hardly less 
splendid than his wife, and they all went off 
in a coach that was very grand, if rather 
clumsy. Its shape reminded Elfrida of the 

coach which 
the fairy -god- 
mother made 
for Cinderella 
out of the 
pumpkin, and 
she herself, as 
she peeped 
through the 
crowd of 
liveried ser- 
vants to see it 
start, felt as 

■ Ogl 

U'RT A FINE FACE, l-N^lf £|| fCyifi |d^P| |^pN t ' 




much like Cinderella as anyone need wish to 
feel, and perhaps a little more. But she con- 
soled herself by encouraging a secret feeling 
she had that something was bound to happen, 
and sure enough something did. And that 
is what I am going to tell you about. I 
own that I should like to tell you also what 
happened to Edred, but his part of the adven- 
ture was not really an adventure at all — though 
it was a thing that he will never forget as long 
as he remembers any magic happenings. 

"We went to the King's house," he told 
Elfrida later. "Whitehall is the name. I 
should like to call my house Whitehall— if it 
wasn't called Arden Castle, you know. And 
there were thousands of servants, I should 
think, all much finer than you could dream 
of, and lords and ladies, and lots of things to 
eat, and bear-baiting and cock-fighting in the 

"Cruel!" said Elfrida. "I hope you 
didn't look." 

" A little I did," said Edred. " Boys have 
to be brave to bear sights of blood and 
horror, you know, in case of them growing 
up to be soldiers. But I liked the masque 
best. The Queen acted in it. There wasn't 
any talking, you know, only dressing up and 
dancing. It was something like the panto- 
mime, but not so sparkly. And there was 
a sea with waves that moved all silvery, and 
panelled scenes, and dolphins and fishy 
things, and a great shell that opened, and 
the Queen and the ladies came out and 
danced, and I had a lot to eat, such rummy 
things, and then I fell asleep, and when I 
woke up the King himself was looking at me 
and saying I had a bonny face. Bonny 
means pretty. You'd think a King would 
know better, wouldn't you ? " 

This was all that Edred could find to tell. 
I could have told more, but one can't tell 
everything, and there is Elfrida's adventure 
to be told about. 

When the coach had disappeared in the 
mist and the mud — for the weather was any- 
thing but summer weather — Elfrida went up- 
stairs again to the room where she had left 
the old nurse. She did not know where else 
to go. 

"Sit you down," said the nurse, "and sew- 
on your sampler." 

There was the sampler, very fine indeed, 
in a large polished wood frame. 

" I wish I needn't," said Elfrida, looking 
anxiously at the fine silks. 

" Tut, tut," said the nurse ; " how'll thee 
grow to be a lady if thou doesn't mind thy 

" I'd much rather talk to you," said Elfrida, 

" Thou canst chatter as well as sew," the 
nurse said, "as well I know to my cost. 
Would that thy needle flew so fast as thy 
tongue ! Sit thee down, and if the little tree 
be done by dinner-time thou shalt have leave 
to see thy Cousin Richard." 

" I suppose," thought Elfrida, taking up 
the needle, " that I am fond of my Cousin 

The sewing was difficult, and hurt her eyes 
— but she persevered. Presently someone 
called the nurse and Elfrida was left alone. 
Then she stopped persevering. " Whatever 
is the good," she asked herself, " of working 
at a sampler that you haven't time to finish, 
and that would be worn out, anyhow, years 
and years before you were born ? The 
Elfrida who's doing that sampler is the same 
age as me, and born the same day," she 
reflected. And then she wondered what the 
date was, and what was the year. She was 
still wondering, and sticking the needle idly 
in and out of one hole, without letting it 
take the silk with it, when there was a sort 
of clatter on the stairs, the door burst open, 
and in came a jolly boy of about her own age. 

"Thy task done?" he cried. "Mine 
too. Old Parrot-nose kept me hard at it, 
but I thought of thee, and for once I did 
all his biddings. So now we are free. Come 
play ball in the garden." This, Elfrida con- 
cluded, must be Cousin Dick, and she decided 
at once that she was fond of him. 

There was a big and beautiful garden 
behind the house. The children played ball 
there, and they ran in the box alleys, and 
played hide-and-seek among the cut trees 
and stone seats, and statues and fountains. 

Old Parrot-nose, who was Cousin Richard's 
tutor, and was dressed in black, and looked 
as though he Had been eating lemons and 
vinegar, sat on a seat and watched them, or 
walked up and down the flagged terrace with 
his thumb in a dull-looking book. 

When they stopped their game to rest on a 
stone step, leaning against a stone seat, old 
Parrot-nose walked very softly up behind the 
seat, and stood there where they could not 
see him and listened. Listening is very dis- 
honourable, as we all know, but in those days 
tutors did not always think it necessary to 
behave honourably to their pupils. 

I always have thought, and I always shall 
think, that it was the eavesdropping of that 
tiresome old tutor, Mr. Parados, or Parrot- 
nose, which caused all the mischief. But 

Elfrid ?jiMTO !»i nd a '"' a,s wi " 



believe, that the disaster was caused by her 
knowing too much history. That is why she 
is so careful to make sure that no misfortune 
shall ever happen on that account, any way. 
That is one of the reasons why she never 
takes a history prize at school. " You never 
kno»v f w she says. And, in fact, when it 
comes to a question in an historical examina- 
tion, she never does know. 

This was how it happened. Elfrida, now 
that she was no longer running about in the 
garden, remembered the question that she 
had been asking herself over the embroidery 
frame, and it now seemed sensible to ask the 
question of someone who could answer it. 
So she said : — 

" I say, Cousin Richard, what year is " 

(Elfrida, to show off her history, tells about 
Gunpowder Plot. The tutor listens, and gets 
all the names of conspirators that she can 
remember.) " I say, Cousin Richard, what 
day is it?" 

Elfrida understood him to say that it was 
the fifth of November. 

" Is it really?" she said. "Then it's Guy 
Fawkes day. Do you have fireworks ? " 
And in pure lightness of heart began to 
hum : — 

Please to remember 

The Fifth of November 

The gunpowder treason and plot. 

I see no reason 

Why gunpowder treason 

Should ever be forgot. 

" Tis not a merry song, cousin," said 
Cousin Richard, " nor a safe one. Tis best 
not to sing of treason." 

" But it didn't come off, you know, and 
he's always burnt in the end," said Elfrida. 

" Are there more verses ? " Cousin Dick 

" No." 

" I wonder what treason the ballad deals 
with ?" said the boy. 

" Don't you know ? " It was then that 
Elfrida made the mistake of showing off her 
historical knowledge. " / know. And I 
know some of the names of the conspirators, 
too, and who they wanted to kill, and every- 

" Tell me," said Cousin Richard, idly. 

"The King hadn't been fair to the 
Catholics, you know," said Elfrida, full of 
importance, "so a lot of them decided to 
kill him and the Houses of Parliament. 
They made a plot — there were a whole lot of 
them in it. They said Ix*rd Arden was, but 
he wasn't, and some of them were to pretend 
to be hunting, and to seize the Princess 
Elizabeth and proclaim her Queen, and the 

i ?ogle 

rest were to blow the Houses of Parliament 
up when the King went to open them." 

" I never heard this tale from my tutor," 
said Cousin Richard. " Proceed, cousin." 

" Well, Mr. Piercy took a house next the 
Parliament House, and I hey dug a secret 
passage to the vaults under the Parliament 
Houses ; and they put three dozen casks of 
gunpowder there and covered them with 
faggots. And they would have been all 
blown up, only Mr. Tresham wrote to his 
relation, Lord Monteagle, that they were 
going to blow up the King and " 

"What King?" said Cousin Richard. 

" King James the First," said Elfrida. 

« Why— what " for Cousin Richard had 

sprung to his feet, and old Parrot-nose had 
Elfrida by the wrist. 

He sat down on the seat and drew her 
gently till she stood in front of him — gently, 
but it was like the hand of iron in the velvet 
glove (of which, no doubt, you have often 

" Now, Mistress Arden," he said, softly, 
" tell me over again this romance that you 
tell your cousin." 

Elfrida told it. 

"And where did you hear this pretty 
story ? " he asked. 

" Where are we now?" gasped Elfrida, who 
was beginning to understand. 

"Here, in the garden — where else?" said 
Cousin Richard, who understood nothing of 
the matter. 

" Here — in my custody," said the tutor, 
who thought he understood everything. 
"Now tell me all— every name, every par- 
ticular — or it will be the worse for thee and 
thy father." 

"Come, sir," said Cousin Richard, "you 
frighten my cousin. It is but a tale she 
told. She is always merry, and full of 
many inventions." 

" It is a tale she shall tell again before 
those of higher power than I," said the tutor, 
in a thoroughly disagreeable way, and his 
hand tightened on Elfrida's wrist. 

"But— but — it's Alston," cried Elfrida, in 
despair. " It's in all the books." 

" Which books ? " he asked, keenly. 

" I don't know — all of them," she sullenly 
answered; sullenly, because she now really 
did understand just the sort of adventure in 
which her unusual knowledge of history, and, 
to do her justice, her almost equally unusual 
desire to show off, had landed her. 

" Now," said the hateful tutor, for such 
Elfrida felt him to be, " tell me the names 
of the conspirator,/ 1 



1 1 1 

r ^ 



"It catCi do any harm," Elfrida told her- 
self, "This is James the Firsts time, and 
I'm in it. But it's three hundred years ago 
ill I the same, and it all has happened, and it 
can't make any difference what I say, so Vd 
better tell all the names I know." 

The hateful tutor shook her 

14 Yes, all righL/'she said; and to herself she 
added, " It's only a sort of dream ; I may as 
well tell Yet when she opened her mouth 
to tell all the names she could remember 
of the conspirators of the poor old Gunpowder 
Plot that didn't come off, all those years ago, 
she found herself not telling those names at 
all. Instead, she found herself saying :-- 

" Fm not going to tell I don't care what 
you do to me, I'm sorry I said anything 
about it. It's all nonsense — I mean, it's 
only history, and you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself, listening behind doors — I mean, 
out of doors behind stone seats, when people 
are talking nonsense to their own cousins." 

Elfrida does not remember 
very exactly what happened 
after this. She was furiously 
angry, and when you are 
furiously angry things get 
mixed and tangled up in a 
sntt of dreadful red mist She 
only remembers that the tutor 
was very horrid, and twisted 
her wrists to make her tell, 
and she screamed 
and tried to kick 
him; that Cousin 
Richard, who did 
not scream, did, 
on the other 
hand, succeed in 
kicking thetutor; that 
she was dragged in- 
doors and shut up in 
a room without a 
window, so that it 
was quite dark, 
"If only I'd got 
Edred here 3 " she said 
to herself, with tears of 
rage and mortification, 
"I'd try to make some 
poetry and get the 
iMouldiwarp to come 
and fetch us away. But 
it's no use till he comes 
home. 3 ' 

When he did come 
home — after the bear- 
baiting and the cock- 
fighting and the banquet 
Lord and Lady Arden 
And they found 

and the masque 
came with him, of course, 
their house occupied by an armed guard, and 
in the dark little room a pale child exhausted 
with weeping, who assured them again and 
again that it was all nonsense, it was only 
history, and she hadn t meant to tell— indeed 
she hadn't. Lady Arden took her in her 
arms and held her close and tenderly, in 
spite of the grand red velvet and the jewels, 
*' Thou'st done no harm/ 1 said Lord Arden 
— > ( a pack of silly tales, To morrow I'll see 
my Lord Salisbury and prick this silly bubble. 
Go thou to bed, sweetheart," he said to his 
wife, "and let the little maid lie with thee - 
she is all a-tremble with tears and terrors, 
To-morrow my Lord Secretary shall teach 
these popinjays their place, and Arden 
House shall be empty of them, and we shall 
laugh at this fine piece of work that a solemn 
marplot has rcmde out of a name or two and 




all will be well, and we shall lie down in 

But when to-morrow night came it had, as 
all nights have, the day 1 is work behind it, 
Lord Arden and his lady and the little child- 
ren lay, not in Arden House in Soho, not 
in Arden Castle on the downs by the sea, 
bat in the Tower of London, charged with 
high treason and awaiting their trial 

For my Lord Salisbury had gone to those 
vaults under the Houses of Parliament and 
had found that bold soldier of fortune, (Juy 
Fawkes, with his dark eyes, his dark lantern, 
and his dark intent ; and the names of those 
in the conspiracy had been given up, and 
King James was saved, and the Parliaments 
— but the Catholic gentlemen whom he had 
deceived, and who had turned against him 
and his deceits, were face to face with the 
rack and the scaffold. 

by \j 


And I can't explain it at all — because, oF 
course> Elfrida knew as well as I do that it 
all happened three hundred years ago— or, if 
you prefer to put it that way, that it had 
never happened, and that, anyway, it was 
Mr, Ttesham's letter to Lord Muni eagle, arid 
not Elfrida's singing of that silly rhyme, that 
had brought the Aniens and all these other 
gentlemen to the lower and to the shadow 
of death. And yet she felt that it was she 
who had betrayed them. That they were 
traitors to King and Parliament made no 
manner of difference. It was she, as she 
felt but too bitterly, who was the traitor. 
And in the thick-walled room in the Tower, 
where the name of Raleigh was still fresh in 
its carving, Klfrida lay awake, long after Lady 
Arden and Kdred were sleeping peaceful, and 
hated herself, calling herself a Traitor, a 
Coward, and an Ufflefrl^ffer. 


The Strange Revelation of a Great Picture Fraud. 


pzn^ai^ ,/v, i imi sl 

HE picture fraud to be revealed 
in the present article was the 
skilful work of two young 
artists, assisted by a third, in 
1 80 1. The scheme proved a 
great success, the conspirators 
netting a clear thousand pounds, and the 
public of the day had no idea that it had 
been gulled. In fact, everyone has remained 
in happy ignorance from that year until now, 
when for the first time- the full details are 
about to be published. 

But, before beginning to learn the story, 
will the reader please carefully peruse the 
advertisement, here reproduced, that appeared 
in the Morning Post of March 10th, 1801 ? 
In this advertisement we are informed that 
Mr. J. J. Masquerier, having been in Paris 
during the previous 

January and Feb- 
ruary, was induced to 
ask, and succeeded 
in obtaining, permis- 
sion to paint a por- 
trait of Napoleon 
reviewing his Con- 
sular Guards at the 
Tuileries Palace ; that 
the picture he painted 
included a faithful 
portrait of the First 
Consul taken from 
life, and was the only 

one of the kind in this country; that the 
picture was on view at 22, Piccadilly, and 
could be seen for the admission price of a 
shilling. All this sounded most attractive in 
the ears of the British public, and, as it was 
the first accurate likeness in England of the 
young Napoleon, with whom we were at 
deadly war, thousands flocked to the gallery 
in Piccadilly, where, besides paying the cost 
of admission, they eagerly bough^ a pamphlet, 
"Description of the Great Historical Pic- 
ture," for an extra sixpence. This sixpenny 
pamphlet or catalogue was one of the first 
that was ever sold in England at a private 

So far everything appears genuine and 
splendid, and as Napoleon was the name on 
every lip we can well understand the rush 
that took place to see the great picture, for it 
measured twenty-seven feet long by twenty high. 

Vol. xxxvi.— 15. 

TV/fR. MASQUERIER has the'honour respectfully 
XV A to inform the Public, that being in Paris during the 
months of December and January, he was induetd, when 
there, to solicit permission to' PAINT a PORTRAIT 
of the FIKST CONSUL, BONAPARTE, * the Grand 
Review of the Consular Guards; which having obtained* is 
now open for Exhibition, at No. 22, Piccadilly, opposite 
the Green Park. , 

Mr. MASQUERIER be^s leave toobservc, that he is the I 
only English Artist who ever had similaT means of ac-, 
curacy : the Likeness which he has talcen has met with the 
most flattering approbation, and it is the only one in this' 

! The Exhibition i* open from Nine till Five. Admis- 

jjkion One Shilling. 


But now let the story be traced from its 
genesis, and as it proceeds let it be borne in 
mind that the whole of the facts here given 
can be substantiated by documentary proofs 
preserved in public archives. 

The two young artists alluded to had been 
fellow-students at the Royal Academy, and 
were fast friends. One, Charles Turner, 
is known to fame chiefly as a most industrious 
engraver, who mezzotinted a number of very 
fine plates ; and the other, John James Mas- 
querier, was born in London of French 
parents, had studied art in Paris, and was 
familiar with that capital. In 1800 the 
former was twenty-six and the latter twenty- 
two years of age. In November of that 
year the two young men, in quite a legitimate 
manner, discussed the question of a visit 

to Paris to obtain a 
portrait of Napoleon. 
It was agreed that 
Masquerier should go 
over to Paris and, if 
possible, paint the 
portrait for Turner to 
engrave, so that for 
the first time it might 
be possible to intro- 
duce an English en- 
graving of the famous 
General to the public. 
On January 28th, 
1801, Masquerier 
returned to London and revealed to Charles 
Turner that not only had he secured a 
portrait of Napoleon, but that he had also 
obtained a picture of a far more ambitious 
character — nothing less than a review of the 
Consular Guards. Within six weeks all 
arrangements had been completed for exhibit- 
ing this latter picture, painted on the spot 
and from life, and the gallery was thrown 
open to an eager and expectant public on 
Monday, March 9th. 

By the aid of the following illustration 
we can examine the picture. The review is 
taking place in the court of the Tuileries 
Palace, opening to the Place du Carrousel. 
This was where, during the Revolution, the 
fatal attack had been made on the famous 
Swiss Guards on August 10th, 1792, which 
date can be seen inscribed on several parts of 
the building. The troops are chosen from 



the flower of the French army, particularly 
from among the regiments that served at the 
Battle of Marengo, which took place on 
June 14th, 1800. The officers are Napoleon's 
relatives and confidential friends. The day 
on which this review took place was one of 
special spectacular brilliance; for, as Napoleon 
had recently been the victim of an attempt to 
assassinate him while going to the Opera, the 
most distinguished members of the military 
staff crowded round him, and the most 

kept at liberty to lake off his hat to the 
colours, the only salute he pays in public. 

A little to the right, with his back turned 
towards the spectator, is General Lasne, 
Commander-in-Chief of the Consular Guards, 
a tall stout man, who was the only person in 
the carriage with Napoleon when the bomb 
exploded. Other officers present include 
General Durocq and General Berth ier, and 
on the right is a young Mameluke chief who 
came back with Napoleon from Egypt. 


fashionable of the Parisians graced the scene. 
Many of the windows of the palace are broken 
by the concussion caused by the bomb, which 
exploded about a hundred yards to the right 
of the picture. 

Napoleon appears on his charger, La 
Styrie, dressed in a GeneraPs uniform, over 
which is the grey coat he wore at the Battle 
of Marengo. Whilst everyone around him is 
glittering in gold and silver, decked with 
plumes and full of animation, Napoleon is 
remarkable for his plain dress, short figure, 
and sallow, pensive countenance. He sits 
rather stooping on his horse, and while with 
his right hand he holds the reins, his left is 

Such was the picture the j>eople crowded 
to sue, and it was stated that the exactness, 
both of feature and expression, in the portrait 
of the l'irst Consul received the most flatter- 
ing approbation from every person both in 
England and France who was enabled to 
decide; and a fortnight after the opening of 
the exhibition, when M. Tall ion, who had 
recently returned from Egypt, saw the picture 
he left the written testimony: "I have seen 
the portrait of General Bonaparte made by 
Mr. Masquerier, and have found it very life- 
like." The picture, having remained on view 
for some time in London, was shown in the 
s . Original from 





The public may be forgiven for believing 
that they were admiring a picture that Mas- 
querier had painted on the spot in Paris, 
with the sanction and under the personal 
favour of Napoleon and his Generals, who had 
graciously given the artist sittings that he 
might obtain faithful and accurate portraits. 

But no ; here comes the great shock — here 
the bomb explodes. Masquerier never saw 
Napokon or any of his Generals t 

Surrender of Breda," as will be quite evi- 
dent to the reader if he will compare the 
two diagrammatic reproductions here given. 
These were the materials Masquerier col- 
lected when in Paris, and these were the 
" studies " he brought to London from which 
to produce the picture. Arrived in London, 
Masquerier went to Charles Turner's house 
in Warren Street, Fitzroy Square, and there a 
small picture of the review was made, to serve 
as a model for the large one. Then the large 
canvas was set up in Turner's room in 
Warren Street on January 31st, and, as soon 
as Turner had sketched out the picture upon 
it, both artists set themselves to the task 
of painting as quickly as possible. On 



This is what took place. Masquerier, 
when in Paris, made himself agreeable to the 
valet of a famous French painter, and by 
bribing this servant he surreptitiously made 
a tracing from a drawing of the suoject of 
the review the French painter had executed, 
and by these means obtained the composition 
of the picture. For the head of Napoleon 
Masquerier secured a small china bust, and 
for the portraits of the Generals he bought 
prints in the Paris, shops. For the horse of 
General Lasne a copy was made of the prin- 
cipal horse in Velazquez's famous picture, 
now in the Prado Gallery at Madrid, of "The 

Digitized by L^OOglC ' 

February 2nd another artist, Henry Bernard 
Chalon, was called in to paint the horses, 
and so, by painting all day, the picture was 
sufficiently advanced for it to be removed to 
22, Piccadilly, on the 21st, where work was 
resumed and continued until even after the 
opening of the exhibition. 

It will surely be agreed that the fraud was 
most skilfully planned, cleverly managed, and 
adroitly placed before an admiring public ; 
and it has been reserved for the readers of 
The Strand Magazine to be the first to 
pierce through the deception and know the 
complete fr.cts of th? case. 




[ We shall be glad to receive C&ntrih aliens to this sect ion } and t$ pay for sue A as are accepted.] 
Copy right t 1908, by George Ntwnes, Limited. 


T SEND you a 

X photograph of 
a tree which, with 
the stones round 
it, was completely 
covered with a web 
made by thousands 
or caterpillars. The 
tree and ground 
were perfectly 
white and not a 
leaf had been left. 
Dozens of cater- 
pillar-strings were 
hanging from the 
brandies, as may 
be seen from the 
photograph, which 
was taken in 
Glencom Wood, 
on the shores of 
Llllswater Lake. — Mr. William L. Fletcher, Stone 
leigh, Workington, Cumberland, 

bo l lie lo hold 
between the knees 
while playing the 
instrument. With 
a hole cut in the 
side of the bottle it 
will be found to 
produce a fine tone 
with a gut string, 
— Mr. H. Sawyer, 
The Cottage, 
L. G . 0. Company's 
Depot, Stone- 
h ridge Park, 
Ilarlesden, X.W. 





who is now 
** walking found 
the civilized parts of the world*' wearing a w r ig 
and pushing a perambulator, created quite a com- 
motion on his arrival in the little town of Shepton 
Mallet in Somerset. A leaflet bought from Green 
himself tells us that, originally a shop assistant and 
clerk in Ireland, in 1872 he turned his attention to 
athletics and soon came to the front as a pedestrian. 
Many fine performances stand to his credit in the 
past, and on his present undertaking he is everywhere 
receiving good wishes for his success. — Miss Mary 
Bown, Weslleigh, Shepton Mallet. 


THINKING it might be of interest lo some of 
your readers, 1 have ventured to show how a 
fiddle of this kind may be easily constructed from the 
common glass heer-bottle with a screw stopper, The 
handle is fastened by a small bolt passed through the 
centre of the stopper^ which is then screwed in, as 
may be seen in the photograph. The string is held 
at the bottom of the l>oltle by a common horse nail 
screwed to the piece of wood, which is held in 
position by a thin brass wire band round the 





AS you will notice, the slang word " chump," if 
written in the manner here shown, reads the 
same even when held upside down. I think it is the 
only word in the English language which has this 
peculiarity, and therefore hope you will consider it 
wurihv of insertion in your "Curiosities" column.— 
Mr. Mitchell T, Lavin, 931, West Ninth Street, 
Cincinnati, Ohio, T T ,S, V. 


IT is very unusual 10 find the pelican chosen for a 
lectern, so that I he accompanying photograph 
of a finely -carved example to be seen in St. Saviour's 
Church, Reading, is of particular interest* The 
lectern is an illustration of the old idea that the 
pelican fed its young with blood from its own breast ; 
and— the better to convey the idea — there is a patch 
of bright crimson on the dark oak of the carving.— 
Mr. H. A. King, 22, Queen Victoria Street, Reading. 

I send you an addition to the many interesting 
\_ optical illusions which have appeared recently 
in your pages. The inside circle in Kig. t appears 
to be greater in diameter than that in Pig. 2 f but 
this is not an, since the diameter is the same in 
each case. — Mr, K + j. Samuel, #3, Torbay Road, 
Brondesbury, N.W. 


HERE is a photograph of a curious Chinese little 
tree, or, rather, four little trees planted in the 
same pot, twisted into shape and hound together so 
as to resemble a stag. Two branches are left tree to 
represent the antlers, and round berries are attached 
to the head for eyes. Little trees such as these may 
be trained into the forms of many other animals, 
especially lions and tigers. If carefully attended to 
they live for quite a long time, and always retain their 
shapes They are brought round every spring by 
the Chinese flower -men. — Mr. J. If. Jordan, c/o 
Rev. Frank Will cos, Great lien t ley 'Vicarage, near 
Colchester, Essex, 


A MOST realistic piece of carving is shown in the 
photograph I am sending you of a curious 
memorial lr* be seen above a grave in Bamack church- 
yard, about four miles from Stamford. Few would 
guess, on looking at this picture, that it shows, not a 
fallen tree, but merely a clever specimen oi carving. 
—Mr. W. Malcolm, Thorpe House, Stamford. 



CWrfNECS ALL nnR,r,r 

FOOD AND «w*it W 



DURING a recent visit to the shores of the Dead Sea I 
came across a small hut built of wattle and mud, and 
thatched with straw. Under the eaves of the shanty I dis- 
covered a quaint inscription^ painted both in English and 
French, a print of which I send you. On inquiry J found 
that the words, "All articles holynes," referred to small 
crosses, crucifixes* etc., made of black Dead Sea stone, and 
also other articles manufactured in the Holy Land, which were 
for sale inside the hut, — Mr, S, Hunt, c/o Mr. 5heppard t 
Derby Road, Marehay, near Derby* 




FROM this photo- 
graph and the 
accompanying direc- 
tions it will he seen 
thai an old umbrella 
can very easily be made 
to serve as an excellent 
wool - winder, First 
remove the cover and 
handle, also the catch 
near the latter, then 
procure a piece uf 
metal tube about six 


AT first sight it seems impossible to 
draw this figure with one continuous 
line. But, as a little investigation will 
show, this is by no means the case. For 
instance, it 
may be done 
by starting at 
the point 
ni a r k e d F , 
and going in 
turn to 1), B, 
A, D t H t K, 
C, B, E, G, 
If, and so 
Uiek again to 
the starting- 
in tint at F. — 
T, G. G, R, 
K e ft e g i e , 



objects, re- 
s k m b 1 i n g 
fi sh es, are 
really bones, 
two of which 
occur in 
every had- 
dock. They 

are situated near the neck or shoulder of 
the fish r and perhaps correspond lo the 
shoulder -blades of warm-blooded animals. 
The tjones vary in size according to the 
si*e of the haddock. Those shown here 
have been lunched with a dash of colour 
to increase their likeness to real fishes, 
and in a few instances a Little surplus 
bone has been removed with a pen- 
knife* I have placed a penny nn the 
card to sliow the comparative size. — - 
Mr. W. H. Patterson, Gar ran a rd, Slrand- 
town, Belfast, 

inches in length and of slightly larger 
internal diameter than that "f the 
umbrella stick. Next drive a wood 
plug lightly into one end of this 
tube and lash it securely to the back 
of a chair with the plugged end 
downwards. Place the umbrella 
Stick in the lube and the winder is 
readv for use,— Mr, C- W. Govett, 
Stamford Hill, N, 





J , O 



WE noticed that you gave f some months ago, an 
illustration of a post- card with an address 
in technical chemical terms, and asking if any one of 
your readers could quote an address as short. We 
send you herewith a photograph of an actual post- 
card received here from London, and you will see 
there is nothing on it but three letters — f * B.5. A." — 
which certainly is shorter thalh the one quoted in 
your Magazine. — The Birmingham Small Arms Com- 
pany, Limited. 


KNOWING that you are interested in curious 
sign-boards and advertisements, I send you a 
photograph of a board to be seen outside an Indian 

steel trunk manufacturer's shop at Sialkole in the 
Punjab. It is a gentle hint to the public that no 
credit dealings are countenanced, although at first 
sight its meaning is anything but clear. Very likely, 
however, the announcement, by reason of its quami- 
ness, received far greater attention than it would have 
done had it been set forth in the best King's English. 
—Mr, Henry Waters, Station School, Kawal Pindi, 


I PURCHASED this curious object from a Mexican 
wood -chopper, one Jose' Gonzales, who dis- 
covered it on alive oak tree at Watson's Ranch t fifteen 
miles from Monterey, California, on January l&th, 

IOOSp When found, it was on 
one of five limbs about twenty- 
five feet from the groundj the 
tree itself being five feet in dia- 
meter. The limb in this picture 
is one foot thick. An Indian 
ninety -seven years of age, living 
in this vicinity, has the following 
to say concerning its origin : 
Sixty years agu a member of his 
tribe while hunting came upon a 
bear in a tree. Suing a skilful 
hunter he managed to slay the 
beast with a single shot without 
so much as dropping him to 
the ground. But as he was 
a long distance from camp and 
unable to take the entire body, 
which had lodged in the fork 

L^ . — 

of the tree, he cut away as much as he could 
conveniently carry and left the remainder, which 
in time fell away, leaving a single bone around 
which the limb has grown, In itself this relic was a 
most interesting possession, but its value was greatly 
enhanced hy the strange story related by the old 
Indian* — Mr* Emmet McMenamin, F*£X Uox 34, 
Monterey, California, U.S. A, 


HERE is a good example of t4 double exposure " 
photography, obtained white fishing in the 
Dee. The photograph of myself was secured first , 
and when, shortly afterwards, I caught a salmon — 
which was taken on to 1 he bank— it was photographed 
by my wife without the plate having been changed. 
Hit* curious picture which I send you was I he refill. 




A YOU N'G Japanese stag of mine, Jacob by name, 
/\ has a marked penchant for games of piny. His 
favourite pastime lakes the form of tossing skyward, 
and then catching between his antlers with marvellous 
dexterity,, any bough or block of wood which he may 
chance to come across. Sometimes he will get hold 
of a pole fifteen or twenty feet long. Then he will 
have a high old time, in more senses than one, I have 
known him to keep up the game for an hour at a stretch 
—indeed, he seldom cries " Tax M until either he or the 

TME above diagram gives the solution to Mr. 
Wall is 1 s problem, which was to command 
every square on the board by the use of four queens 
and a pawn. It will be seen that the four queens 
control all the squares but two, Although this 
solution probably employs the least power by which 
al! the squares can he control led , it is not the mast 
difficult. By far the hardest task is to control all 
the squares by using four rjueens and a knight. The 
solution to this most ingenious problem by the author 
of the above will be given in our next number. 


plaything is worn out* The other 
day, however, Jacob chanced to 
catch a piece of partial I y- rotten 
tree-stump wiih such dexterity 
that it forthwith became firmly 
fixed between his hums, and 
neither he nor I have :ls yet 
contrived to move it. Not lhat 
Jacob has shown any undue 
hankering after the removal of 
the foreign body so curiously 
acquired ; on the contrary, he 
seems quite proud of his si range 
head di ess* The dilemma, upon 
the horns of which I am at 
present as securely impaled as is 
the block of wood in die accom- 
panying photograph between the 
horns of Jacob, is— whether to 
break the heart of Jacob by 
forcibly removing his plaything 
with a crow-bar, or risk his 
getting brain-fever from l he un- 
accustomed weight upon his noble 
b ro w ? M r , If. W. Sh eph ea rd - 
Walwyn, M,A., F.Z.S.. etc., 
[ >ahvhjnnie t Kenky. 

\VI\|) r, WATKKFAL1 
"T^IIIS photograph was taken 
X by myself at Motulara, 
near Auckland, during a heavy 
gale, and shows how (he tremen- 
dous force of the w r ind arrested 
the waterfall in its downward 
course and blew it back upwards 
Into the air. — Mr* Henry Wmkel- 
manp E 316, Victoria Arcade, 
gKBtSrapKcH Zealand, 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 






Vol. xxxvi. 

AUGUST, 1908. 

No. 212. 

The Silver Mirror. 


AN. 3.— This affair of White 
and Wotherspoon's accounts 
proves to be a gigantic task. 
There are twenty thick ledgers 
to be examined and checked. 
Who would be a junior 
partner ? However, it is the first big bit 
of business which has been left entirely 
in my hands. I must justify it. But it has 
to be finished so that the lawyers may have 
the result in time for the trial. Johnson 
said this morning that I should have to get the 
last figure out before the 20th of the month. 
Good Lord ! Well, have at it, and if human 
brain and nerve can stand the strain I'll win 
out at the other side. It means office-work 
from ten to five, and then a second sitting 
from about eight to one in the morning. 
There's drama in an accountant's life. When 
I find myself in the still early hours while 
all the world sleeps, hunting through column 
after column for those missing figures which 
will turn a respected Alderman into a felon, 
I understand that it is not such a prosaic 
profession after all. 

On Monday I came on the first trace of 
defalcation. No heavy game hunter ever got 
a finer thrill when first he caught sight of the 
trail of his quarry. But I look at the twenty 
ledgers and think of the jungle through 
which I have to follow him before I get my 
kill. Hard work—but rare sport, too, in 
a way ! I saw the fat fellow once at a City 
dinner, his red face glowing above a white 
napkin. He looked at the little pale man 
at the end of the table. He would have 
been pale too if he could have seen the 
task that would be mine. 

Vol. xxxvi.— 16. 

Jan. 6. — What perfect nonsense it is for 
doctors to prescribe rest when rest is out of 
the question ! Asses ! They might as well 
shout to a man who has a pack of wolves 
at his heels that what he wants is absolute 
quiet. My figures must be out by a certain 
date ; unless they are so I shall lose the 
chance of my lifetime, so how on earth am 
I to rest ? I'll take a week or so after the 

Perhaps 1 was myself a fool to go to the 
doctor at all. But I get nervous and highly- 
strung when I sit alone at my work at night. 
It's not a pain — only a sort of fullness of 
the head with an occasional mist over the 
eyes. I thought perhaps some bromide, or 
chloral, or something of the kind might do 
me good. But stop work ! It's absurd to 
ask such a thing. It's like a long-distance 
race. You feel queer at first and your heart 
thumps and your lungs pant, but if you have 
only the pluck to keep on you get your second 
wind. I'll stick to my work and wait for my 
second wind. If it never comes — all the 
same I'll stick to my work. Two ledgers 
are done, and I am well on in the third. 
The rascal has covered his tracks well ; but 
I pick them up for all that. 

Jan. 9. — I had not meant to go to the 
doctor again. And yet I have had to. 
"Straining my nerves, risking a complete 
break-down, even endangering my sanity." 
That's a nice sentence to have fired off at 
one. Well, I'll stand the strain and I'll take 
the risk ; but so long as I can sit in my chair 
and move a pen I'll follow the old sinner's 

By the way, I may as wt\\ set down hers 

Copyright, 1908, by Arthur Conan Doyle, in the United Sums of America, 




the queer experience which drove me this 
second time to the doctor. I'll keep an 
exact record of my symptoms and sensations, 
because they are interesting in themselves — 
" a curious psycho-physiological study," says 
the doctor — and also because I am perfectly 
certain that when I am through with them 
they will all seem blurred and unreal, like 
some queer dream betwixt sleeping and 
waking. So now, while they are fresh, I 
will just make a note of them, if only 
as a change of thought after the endless 

There's an old silver-framed mirror in my 
room — it was given me by a friend who had 
a taste for antiquities, and he, as I happen 
to know, picked it up at a sale and had no 
notion where it came from. It's a large 
thing, three feet across and two feet high, 
and it leans at the back of a side-table on 
my left as I write. The frame is flat, about 
three inches across, and very old ; far too 
old for hall-marks or other methods of 
determining its age. The glass part 
projects, with a bevelled edge, and has the 
magnificent reflecting power which is only, 
as it seems to me, to be found in very old 
mirrors. There's a feeling of perspective 
when you look into it such as no modern 
glass can ever give. 

The mirror is so situated that as I sit at 
the table I can usually see nothing in it but 
the reflection of the red window curtains. 
But a queer thing happened last night. I 
had been working for some hours, very much 
against the grain, with continual bouts of 
that mistiness of which I have complained. 
Again and again I had to stop and clear my 
eyes. Well, on one of these occasions I 
chanced to look at the mirror. It had the 
oddest appearance. The red curtains which 
should have been reflected in it were no 
longer there, but the glass seemed to be 
clouded and steamy, not on the surface, 
which glittered like steel, but deep down in 
the very grain of it. This opacity, when I 
stared hard at it, appeared to slowly rotate 
this way and that, until it was a thick white 
cloud swirling in heavy wreaths. So real 
and solid was it, and so reasonable was 
I, that I remember turning, with the idea 
that the curtains were on fire. But 
everything was deadly still in the room — 
no sound save the ticking of the clock, 
no movement save the slow gyration of 
that strange woolly cloud deep in the heart 
of the old mirror. 

Then, as I looked, the mist, or smoke, or 
cloud, or whatever one may call it, seemed 

to coalesce and solidify at two points quite 
close together, and I was aware, with a thrill 
of interest rather than of fear, that these were 
two eyes looking out into the room. A vague 
outline of a head I could see — a woman's, by 
the hair, but this was very shadowy. Only 
the eyes were quite distinct ; such eyes — 
dark, luminous, filled with some passionate 
emotion, fury or horror, I could not say 
which. Never have I seen eyes which were 
so full of intense, vivid life. They were not 
fixed upon me, but stared out into the room. 
Then as I sat erect, passed my hand over 
my brow, and made a strong conscious effort 
to pull myself together, the dim head faded 
into the general opacity, the mirror slowly 
cleared, and there were the red curtains once 

A sceptic would say, no doubt, that I had 
dropped asleep over my figures and that my 
experience was a dream. As a matter of 
fact, I was never more vividly awake in my 
life. I was able to argue about it even as I 
looked at it, and to tell myself that it was a 
subjective impression — a chimera of the 
nerves — begotten by worry and insomnia. 
But why this particular shape ? And who is 
the woman, and what is the dreadful emotion 
which I read in those wonderful brown eyes ? 
They come between me and my work. For 
the first time I have done less than the daily 
tally which I had marked out Perhaps that 
is why I have had no abnormal sensations 
to-night. To-morrow I must wake up, come 
what may. 

Jan. n. — All well, and good progress with 
my work. I wind the net, coil after coil, 
round that bulky body. But the last smile 
may remain with him if my own nerves 
break over it The mirror would seem to 
be a sort of barometer which marks my 
brain pressure. Each night I have observed 
that it had clouded before I reached the end 
of my task. 

Dr. Sinclair (who is, it seems, a bit of a 
psychologist) was so interested in my ac- 
count that he came round this evening to 
have a look at the mirror. I had observed 
that something was scribbled in crabbed old 
characters upon the metal work at the back. 
He examined this with a lens, but could 
make nothing of it. "Sane. X. Pal." was 
his final reading of it, but that did not bring 
us any farther. He advised me to put it 
away into another room ; but, after all, what- 
ever I may see in it is, by his own account, 
only a symptom. It is in the cause that the 
danger l^gj^hefptwenty ledgers — not the 

silver iiffirtY#*RPa^f cked away if x 





could only do it. I'm at the eighth now, so 
I progress. 

Jan, 13- — Perhaps it would have been 
wiser after all if I had packed away the 
mirror. I had an extraordinary experience 
with it last night. And yet 1 find it so 
interesting, so fascinating, that even now I 
will keep it in its place* What on earth is 
the meaning of it all ? 

I suppose it was about one in the morning, 
and I was closing my books preparatory to 
staggering off to bed, when I saw her there 
in front of me, The stage of mistiness and 
development must have passed unobserved, 
and there she was in all her beauty and 
passion and distress, as clear-cut as if she 
were really in the flesh before me- The 
figure was small, but very distinct— so much 
so that every feature, and even every detail 
of dress, is stamped in my memory* She is 
seated on the extreme left of the mirror. A 
sort of shadowy figure crouches down beside 
her— I can dimly discern that it is a man — 
and then behind them is cloud, in which I 
see figures — figures which move. It is not 
a mere picture upon which I look. It is 

a scene in life, an actual episode. She 
crouches and quivers, The man beside bar 
cowers down. The vague figures make 
abrupt ■ movements and gestures. All my 
fears were swallowed up in my interest. It 
was -maddening to see so much and not to 
see more. 

But I can at least describe the woman to 
the smallest point She is very beautiful and 
quite young, not more than five-and twenty, 
I should judge. Her hair is of a very rich 
brown, with a warm chestnut shade fining 
into gold at the edges, A little flat-pointed 
cap comes to an angle in front, and is made 
of lace edged with pearls. The forehead is 
high, too high perhaps for perfect beauty, but 
one would not have it otherwise, as it gkes a 
touch of power and strength to what would 
otherwise be a softly feminine face. The 
brows are most delicately curved, over heavy 
eyelids, and then come those wonderful eyes 
—so large, so dark, so full of overmastering 
emotion, of rage, of horror, contending with 
a pride of self-control which holds her from 
sheer frenzy. The cheeks are pale, the lips 
white with agony, the chin and throat most 




exquisitely rounded. The figure sits and 
leans forward in the chair, straining and 
rigid y cataleptic with horror. The dress is 
black velvet, a jewel gleams like a flame in 
the breast, and a golden crucifix smoulders 
in the shadow of a fold. This is the lady 
whose image still lives in the old silver mirror. 
What dire deed could it be which has left its 
impress there so that now in another age, if 
the spirit of a man be but attuned to it, he 
may be conscious of its presence ? 

One other detail : down on the left side of 
the skirt of the black dress was what I 
thought at first was a shapeless bunch of 
white ribbon* Then, as I looked more 
intently or as the vision defined itself more 
clearly, I perceived what it was. It was the 
hand of a man, clenched and knotted in 

to her. The interest of the thing fascinated 
me. I thought no more of its relation to 
my own nerves, but I stared and stared as if 
in a theatre. But I could get no farther. 
The mist thinned, There were tumultuous 
movements in which all the figures were 
vaguely concerned. Then the mirror was 
clear once more. 

The doctor says I must drop work for a 
day, and I can aflford to do so, for I have 
made good progress lately, It is quite evi- 
dent that the visions depend entirely upon 
my own nervous state, for I sat in front of 
the mirror for an hour to-night, with no 
result whatever. My soothing day has 
chased them away. I wonder whether I 
shall ever penetrate what they all mean? I 
examined the mirror this evening under a 


agony; which held on with a convulsive 
grasp to the fold of the dress, The rest 
of the crouching figure was a mere vague 
outline, but that strenuous hand shone clear 
on the dark background, with a sinister 
suggestion of tragedy in its frantic clutch. 
The man is frightened — horribly frightened. 
That I can clearly discern. What has 
terrified him so? Why does he grip the 
woman's dress? The answer lies amongst 
those moving figures in the background, 
They have brought danger both to him and 

good light, and besides the mysterious 
inscription, "Sane. X. Pal," I was able to 
discern some signs or heraldic marks, very 
faintly visible upon the silver. They must be 
very ancient, as they are almost obliterated. 
So far as I could make out, they were three 
spear-heads, two above and one below. I 
will show them to the doctor when he calls 

Jan. 14, — Feel perfectly well again, and I 
intend that nothing else shall stop me until 
my task ii-!filflMftfiaf ror I r he doctor was shown 




the marks on the mirror and agreed that 
they were armorial bearings. He is deeply 
interested in all that I have told him, and 
cross-questioned me closely on the details. 
It amuses me to notice how he is torn in 
two by conflicting desires — the one that his 
patient should lose his symptoms, the other 
that the medium — for so he regards me — 
should solve this mystery of the past. He 
advised continued rest, but did not 
oppose me too violently when I declared 
that such a thing was out of the question 
until the ten remaining ledgers have been 

Jan. 17. — For three nights I have had no 
experiences — my day of rest has borne fruit. 
Only a quarter of my task is left, but I must 
make a forced march, for the lawyers are 
clamouring for their material. I will give 
them enough and to spare. I have him fast 
on a hundred counts. When they realize 
what a slippery, cunning rascal he is I should 
gain some credit from the case. False 
trading accounts, false balance-sheets, divi- 
dends drawn from capital, losses written down 
as profits, suppression of working expenses, 
manipulation of petty cash — it is a fine 
record ! 

Jan. 18. — Headaches, nervous twitches, 
mistiness, fullness of the temples — all the 
premonitions of trouble, and the trouble 
came sure enough. And yet my real sorrow 
is not so much that the vision should 
come as that it should cease before all is 

But I saw more to-night. The crouching 
man was as visible as the lady whose gown 
he clutched. He is a little swarthy fellow, 
with a black pointed beard. He has a loose 
gown of damask trimmed with fur. The 
prevailing tints of his dress are red. What 
a fright the fellow is in, to be sure ! He 
cowers and shivers and glares back over his 
shoulder. There is a small knife in his other 
hand, but he is far too tremulous and cowed 
to use it. Dimly now I begin to see the 
figures in the background. Fierce faces, 
bearded and dark, shape themselves out of 
the mist. There is one terrible creature, a 
skeleton of a man, with hollow cheeks and 
eyes sunk in his head. He also has a knife in 
his hand. On the right of the woman stands 
a tall man, very young, with flaxen hair, his 
face sullen and dour. The beautiful woman 
looks up at him in appeal. So does the man 
on the ground. This youth seems to be the 
arbiter of their fate. The crouching man 
draws closer and hides himself in the woman's 
§)tirt$, The tall youth bends and tries to 

drag her away from him. So much I saw 
last night before the mirror cleared. Shall I 
never know what it leads to and whence it 
comes ? It is not a mere imagination, of 
that I am very sure. Somewhere, some 
time, this scene has been acted, and this 
old mirror has reflected it. But when — 
where ? 

Jan. 20. — My work draws to a close, and 
it is time. I feel a tenseness within my 
brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which 
warns me that something must give. I have 
worked myself to the limit. But to-night 
should be the last night. With a supreme 
effort I should finish the final ledger and 
complete the case before I rise from my 
chair. I will do it. I will. 

Feb. 7. — I did. My God, what an ex- 
perience ! I hardly know if I am strong 
enough yet to set it down. 

Let me explain in the first instance that I 
am writing this in Dr. Sinclair's private 
hospital some three weeks after the last entry 
in my diary. On the night of January 20th 
my nervous system finally gave way, and I 
remember nothing afterwards until I found 
myself three days ago in this home of rest. 
And I can rest with a good conscience. My 
work was done before I went under. My 
figures are in the solicitors' hands. The hunt 
is over. 

And now I must describe that last night. 
I had sworn to finish my work, and so 
intently did I stick to it, though my head was 
bursting, that I would never look up until 
the last column had been added. And yet 
it was fine self-restraint, for all the time I 
knew that wonderful things were happening 
in the mirror. Every nerve in my body told 
me so. If I looked up there was an end of 
my work. So I did not look up till all was. 
finished. Then, when at last with throbbing 
temples I threw down my pen and raised my 
eyes, what a sight was there ! 

The mirror in its silver frame was like a 
stage, brilliantly lit, in which a drama was in 
progress. There was no mist now. The 
oppression of my own nerves had wrought 
this amazing clarity. Every feature, every 
movement, was as clear-cut as in life. To 
think that I, a tired accountant, the most 
prosaic of mankind, with the account-books 
of a swindling bankrupt before me, should be 
chosen of all the human race to look upon 
such a scene ! 

It was the same scene and the same figures, 
but the drama had advanced a stage. The 
tall young man was holding the woman in his 
arms. She strained away from him and looked 



up at him with loathing in her face. They had 
torn the crouching man away from his hold 
upon the skirt of her dress. A dozen of 
them were round him — savage men, bearded 
men. They hacked at him with knives. All 
seemed to strike him together. Their arms 
rose and fell. The blood did not flow from 
him — it squirted. His red dress was dabbled 
in it. He threw himself this way and that, 
purple upon crimson, like an over-ripe plum. 
Still they hacked, and still the jets shot from 
him. It was horrible — horrible! They 
dragged him kicking to the door. The 
woman looked over her shoulder at him 
and her mouth gaped. I heard nothing, but 
I knew that she was screaming. And then, 
whether it was this nerve-racking vision before 
me, or whether, my task finished, all the 
overwork of the past weeks came in one 
crushing weight upon me, the room danced 
round me, the floor seemed to sink away 
beneath my feet, and I remembered no more. 
In the early morning my landlady found me 
stretched senseless before the silver mirror, 
but I knew nothing myself until three days 
ago I woke in the deep peace of the doctor's 
nursing home. 

Feb. 9.— Only to-day have I told Dr. 
Sinclair my full experience. He had not 
allowed me to speak of such matters before. 
He listened with an absorbed interest. " You 
don't identify this with any well-known scene 
in history ? " he asked, with suspicion in his 
eyes. I assured him that I knew nothing of 
history. " Have you no idea whence that 
mirror came and to whom it once belonged ? " 
he continued. " Have you ? " I asked, for he 
spoke with meaning. " It's incredible," said 
he, "and yet how else can one explain it? 
The scenes which you described before sug- 
gested it, but now it has gone beyond all 
range of coincidence. I will bring you some 
notes in the evening." 

Later. — He has just left me. Let me set 
down his words as closely as I can recall 
them. He began by laying several musty 
volumes upon my bed. 

" These you can consult at your leisure/ 1 
said he. " I have some notes here which 
you can confirm. There is not a doubt that 
what you have seen is the murder of Rizzio 
by the Scottish nobles in the presence of 
Mary, which occurred in March, 1566. 
Your description of the woman is accurate. 
The high forehead and heavy eyelids com- 
bined with great beauty could hardly apply 
to two women. The tall young man was 
her husband, Darnley. Rizzio, says the 
chronicle, 'was dressed in a loose dress- 
ing gown of furred damask, with hose 
of russet velvet.' With one hand he 
clutched Mary's gown, with the other 
he held a dagger. Your fierce, hollow- 
eyed man was Ruthven, who was new- 
risen from a bed of sickness. Every detail 
is exact." 

" But why to me?" I asked, in bewilder- 
ment. " Why of all the human race to 
me ? " 

" Because you were in the fit mental state 
to receive the impression. Because you 
chanced to own the mirror which gave the 

"The mirror! You think, then, that it 
was Mary's mirror — that it stood in the room 
where this deed was done ? " 

"I am convinced that it was Mary's 
mirror. She had been Queen of France. 
Her personal property would be stamped 
with the Royal arms. What you took to be 
three spear-heads were really the lilies of 

" And the inscription ? " 

" * Sane. X. Pal.' You can expand it into 
Sanctae Crucis Palatium. Someone has 
made a note upon the mirror as to whence 
it came. It was the Palace of the Holy 

" Holyrood ! " I cried. 

" Exactly. Your mirror came from Holy- 
rood. You have had one very singular 
experience, and have escaped. I trust that 
you will never put yourself into the way of 
having such another." 

In Our Next Number 

"A Reminiscence of SHERLOCK HOLMES/' 
By Arthur Conan Doyle. 


=== == -TRL^ I T — ;===—= 




F it had been necessary for 
Mr. Hector Bushell to make a 
fortune for himself there can 
be little doubt that he would 
have done it. Fortunately 
or unfortunately — just as you 
please— the necessity did not exist, for his 
father had done it for him before he was 
born. Consequently, Hector, who was a 
genial if somewhat boisterous young man, 
devoted his talents to the service of his 
friends, whose happiness he insisted on pro- 
moting, with their concurrence or without it, 
by the exercise of his knowledge of the world 
and whatever was in it, his business-like 
acumen, his exuberant animal spirits, and 
his overflowing, almost pestilential, energy. 
Quiet - mannered acquaintances who spied 
him afar dodged round corners and ran, 
rather than have their fortunes made by his 
vigorously - expressed advice, enforced by 
heavy slaps on the shoulder and sudden 
digs in the ribs, and sometimes punctuated 
with a hearty punch in the chest. For he 
was a large and strong, as well as a noisy, 
young man, accurately, if vulgarly, described 
by his acquaintances as perpetually " full of 

He had given himself a reputation as an 
art critic, on the strength of a year or two's 
attendance at an art school in Paris ; and, 
indeed, he maintained a studio of his own, 
expensively furnished, where he received his 
friends and had more than once begun a 
picture. But his energies in this matter were 
mainly directed to the good of painters among 
his acquaintances who were under the neces- 
sity of living by their work. He told them 
how their pictures should be painted, and 
how they could certainly be sold. Indeed, 
in this latter respect he did better than 
advise the painter — he advised the buyer, 
when he could seize one, and trundled him 
captive into the studio of his nearest friend 
with great fidelity and enthusiasm. 

"The chance of your life, my dear sir!" 
he would say, snatching at the lapel of some 
wealthy friend's coat, and raising the other 
hand with an imminent threat of a slap on 
the shoulder. " The chance of your life ! 
The coming man, I assure you ! Something 

Vol. xxxvi.— 17. Copyright, 1908, by 

like an investment. A picture they'll offer 
you thousands for some day, and I do believe 
I can get it for .you for a couple of hundred ! 
Come and see it before some dealer gets in ! " 

It was with some such speech as this 
that he interrupted Mr. Higby Fewston, the 
margarine magnate, full of the report of the 
robbery a day before of a Gainsborough por- 
trait from a house in Charles Street, Berkeley 
Square. Mr. Fewston was not the sort of 
man to take a deal of interest in pictures for 
their own sake, but the newspapers estimated 
the money value of the missing picture at 
twenty thousand pounds, and he found that 
very touching. He had the same respect for 
that Gainsborough, which he had never seen, 
that he would have had for a cheque for the 
sum signed by the firm of Rothschild ; rather 
more, in fact, for if the cheque were stolen it 
might be stopped and so rendered valueless ; 
but there was no stopping the Gainsborough 
till you had caught the thief. So that Mr. 
Fewston found himself taking an unwonted 
interest in art ; and when Hector Bushell, 
seizing the opportunity and pulling at his 
arm, drew him in the direction of Sydney 
Blenkinsop's studio, he offered less resistance 
than otherwise he might have done. 

" Man named Blenkinsop," declaimed the 
zealous Hector. "Capital chap, and paints 
like — like a double archangel. His studio's 
close by — come and look for yourself. Of 
course, nothing need be said about buying 
the picture, if you don't want to. But just 

come and see it I'll pretend we were 

passing and just dropped in. You'll have the 
sort of chance that people had in Gains- 
borough's own time. Why, I don't suppose 
he got more than a couple of hundred or so 
for the very picture the papers are so full of 
to-day ! " 

Mr. Fewston suffered himself to be dragged 
through many streets — the studio was not so 
near as Hector's enthusiasm made it seem — 
and finally into the presence of Mr. Sydney 
Blenkinsop, the painter. Blenkinsop was, 
by the side of Bushell, a comparatively quiet 
young man, not without apprehension of the 
possible consequences of his friend's de- 
votion ; for one never could tell what wild 
things Bushell might have been saying 




"Ah, Sydney, old boy!" cried that en- 
thusiast " How have you been all this 
time?" They had last met the day before, 
when Hector had hauled in some other pos- 
sible patron, " How have you been? Just 
looked in as we were passing, you know— 
just looked in ! This is my friend, Mr. 
Higby Fewston, much interested in art, 
and what he don r t know about a picture- 
well, there ! Working on anything just now, 
eh? I say" — this with a start of apprehen- 
sion — "y ou haven't sold that picture yet, 
have you ? The stunner, you know, the 
Keston ? " 

"Oh, that?" responded Blenkinsop, who 

scape, as you say, and no mistake ! Some- 
thing like a landscape that, eh? I knew 
you'd like it, of course, having an eye for 
such a thing. Ah, it's a topper I" 

He fell back by the side of the man of 
margarine, and the two inspected the marvel 
in silence, the one with head aside and a 
smile of ecstasy, and the other with all the 
expression of a cow puzzled by a painted 
field with nothing to eat on it. Sydney 
Blenkinsop shuffled uneasily. 

Presently Mr. Fewston thought of some 
thing to say. "Where was it taken?" he 

" Keston Common," murmured Sydney 


had never sold a picture in his life. " No, I 
haven't Not that one." 

"Ah, plain enough Agnew hasn't been here 
lately, I'd like to have another look at it, old 
chap ; probably shaVt have another chance, 
unless it goes somewhere where I know the 
people. Ah, there now ; look at that now ! " 

Mr. Fewston looked at it blankly. "It- 
it's a landscape," he said, presently, after con 
sideration. The stolen Gainsborough had 
been a portrait, and Mr, Fewston liked things 
up to sample, 

" Rather ! " replied Hector, **It is a land^ 

faintly, and " Keston Common " repeated 
Hector loudly, making the title sound like a 
fresh merit He also drew* attention to the 
wonderful effects of light in the picture, the 
extraordinary painting of the sky, the subtle 
suggestion of atmosphere, and the marvellous 
"values'' Mr. Fewston listened patiently to 
the end. There was another pause, longer 
and more awkward than the last; it seemed 
likely to endure till something burst in 
Sydney Blenkinsop, Then, at last, Mr. 
FJigby Fewston spake, weightily, 

ul^T! , tiRiMf.^ leranconviction - 



11 is a place I don't like. There's a bad train 

Such a criticism as this even Hector 
Bushell could not readily answer. He 
attempted to evade the point, and returned 
again to his " values." But any reference to 
values unsupported by definite figures made 
little impression on the commercial mind of 
Mr. Fewston, and in a very few minutes more 
he drifted out, with Hector Bushell still in 
close attendance. 

Hector, however, remained with the 
margarine Maecenas only long enough to 
discharge another volley of admiration for 
the picture, and took his leave at the first 
convenient corner. As a consequence he 
was back in five minutes, to discover Sydney 
Blenkinsop vengefully kicking a lay figure. 

" Don't bring another chap like that to this 
place," cried the painter, savagely, "or I'll 
pitch him out o' window ! " 

" My dear chap, don't be an ass ! You've 
got no business instincts. A man like that's 
invaluable, if you can only kid him on. Hell 
buy any old thing, if he buys at all." 

" If ! " 

" You're an ungrateful infidel. I tell you 
I'm going to sell that * Keston Common ' 
for you. What could you do with it by 

"Put a stick through it — burn it — Any- 
thing ! I'm sick of the whole business." 

" Just what I expected. You could put a 
stick through it or burn it — and what's the 
good of that ? " 

" What's the harm ? I can't sell it, and 
they won't hang it at the shows ; I know that 
before I send it" 

" You know everything that's no use to 
you and nothing that pays. You can burn 
a picture, but you can't sell it. Now, I'm 
going to sell that picture for you, if you'll 
let me. Will you ? " 

" You can do what you like with it" 

" Done with you, my boy ! I'll make you 
famous with it, and I'll get you money for 
it I've an idea such as you couldn't invent 
in a lifetime. Shut up the shop now and 
well talk it over at the Cate Royal. Come 
along. We'll have a little dinner out of the 
money I'm . going to make for you. But 
you've to take orders from me, mind." 


The evening papers flamed with the tale of 
the lost Gainsborough, as the morning papers 
had done before them, and the morning 
papers of the next day kept up the flame 
with scarcely diminished violence. Sydney 

Blenkinsop rose with nothing but a headache 
to distinguish him from the other unknown 
people about him, but by lunch-time he was 
as famous as Gainsborough himself. For 
another picture had been stolen. The even- 
ing papers came out stronger than ever, 
giants refreshed by a new sensation, with 
the blinding headline, Another Picture 
Robbery ! Sub-headings sang of A Dan- 
gerous Gang at Work, and deplored a 
Young Painter's Missing Masterpiece. 
Sydney Blenkinsop was the young painter, 
and the view of Keston Common was the 
missing masterpiece. In the eyes of thou- 
sands of worthy people Mr. Sydney Blen- 
kinsop became an artist second only in 
importance to Gainsborough, if second to 
anybody; and Mr. Sydney Blenkinsop, him- 
self appalled by the overwhelming success of 
Mr. Hector BushelPs scheme, would have 
fled the country, but for the superior will- 
power of that same Hector Bushell, who 
never left his side. 

For journalists haunted the studio and 
" wrote up " the whole business afresh for 
every edition of all the daily newspapers in 
England. Sydney would have bolted the 
door and fled from the rear, but Hector 
ordered in caviare sandwiches and oyster 
patties and a case of champagne, and was the 
life and soul of the party. When Sydney 
seemed at a loss for a judicious answer — 
which occurred pretty often — Hector was 
instantly equal to the occasion. The main 
story was simple enough, and was cunningly 
left to rest entirely on the word of the police. 
The constable on the beat had perceived, in 
the grey of the morning, that a window of 
the studio had been opened, and a pane 
broken in the process. Nobody seemed to 
be in the place, so the policeman kept watch 
by the window till assistance arrived, when it 
was found that obviously a thief had entered 
the place, but had left. It was not found 
possible to communicate with Mr. Blenkinsop 
till the morning was well advanced and some- 
body was found who knew the address of his 
lodgings ; and then he was met as he was 
leaving home for the studio, in company with 
his friend, Mr. Bushell. Things in the 
studio had been much disarranged, and the 
picture, a view of Keston Common, had been 
cut from its frame and taken. 

So much for the simple facts as observed 
by the police ; but the frills, embroideries, 
tassels, tinsels, and other garnishings which 
lent variety and interest to the narrative 
came in an inexhaustible and glorious 
torrent flflft^ffor Bushell^ took each 




separate journalist aside and gave him the 
special privilege of some wholly new and 
exclusive information as to the surprising 
genius of Sydney Blenkinsop, and the 
amazing prices his pictures were worth and 
would certainly fetch, some day. Doubtless 
the thief was a knowing file, and was laying 
up for the future — "saving his stake/* as it 
were. Any possible slump in Gainsboroughs 
— of course, nobody expected it, but such a 
thing might happen- — would be compensated 
by the certain rise in Blenkinsops, And with 
this astute suggestion Hector shut one eye, 
tapped the side of his nose, and surprised the 
favoured reporter with one of his celebrated 
digs in the ribs. 

The newspapers on their part neglected 
nothing. Gainsborough and Blenkinsop had 
a column apiece, side by side, in most of 
them, and in the rest they had more, or were 
fraternally mingled together. " Is no master- 
piece safe ? " asked the Press, And answer- 
ing its own question with no more than a 
paragraph's delay, the Press gave its opinion 
that no masterpiece was. To have put in 
question the new-born eminence of Blenkin- 
sop would have been to spoil the boom in 
the most unbusinesslike way. Of course, a 
Turner or a Raeburn or another Gains- 
borough would have been preferable, but as 
it was the Press had to do its best with the 
material to hand, and so it did, to the glory 
of Blenkinsop, The notion of a thief or a 
gang of thieves going about after valuable 
pictures was too good to waste, and every 

Digitized by G« 

newspaper expressed the sage conjecture that 
where one picture was, there would the other 
be found. One scribbling cynic managed to 
squeeze in a hint that this might suggest the 
valuable clue of lunacy in the culprit ; 
though nobody noticed that in the general 
flood of Blenkinsoppery. 

But in the intervals of interviewing, when 
the friends had a few minutes of private con- 
versation, there was a notable lack of grati- 
tude in Sydney's acknowledgments, 

"This is a fine ghastly mess you've 
landed me in ! " he protested, at the first 
opportunity, " How do you expect me to 
look all these people in the face? " 

* ( How ? Oh, the usual way — only the 
usual way, you know ! The more usual the 
better, /don't find any difficulty I " 

"You? No — you're enjoying it; youVe 
the cheek for anything. Pm the sufferer. 
I've had to stand here and yarn to a police- 
inspector about the beastly business ! " 

" Yarn ! The simple, plain, clear truth ! 
You dined with me last night at the Cafe 
Royal, leaving the studio just as usual. And 
in the morning you come here also as usual, 
and find the police in charge, Straightfor- 
ward enough* Of course, he didn't ask you 
anything about me. It seems to me you've 
got the soft job. Pm doing all the work, 
and as to enjoying it, of course I am ! Why 
aren't you ? " 

" Enjoying it! Good heavens, man, I 
never expected such a row as this , I was a 
fool to listen to you." 




11 Now, there!" Hector Bushell spread his 
arms in injured protest. "There's ingrati- 
tude ! I've positively made you the most 
celebrated painter alive, all in the course of 
a few hours, and you — you pretend you 
don't like it ! Oh, come off it ! Why, there 
are thousands of respectable people in this 
country to-day, who couldn't name six painters 
who ever lived, that know all about you — 
and Gainsborough. I fetched the Press 
round— did it all ! " 

"And how's it all going to end? And 
where is the picture? Why won't you tell 
me that ? " 

" Well, I was afraid somebody might 
catch on to a sort of idea that you knew 
where it was, and I wanted you to be able to 
say you didn't, that's all. Nobody has had 
any such unworthy suspicions, and so there's 
no harm in inviting you to admire the dodge. 
When I got home last night with the canvas 
rolled up under my arm I just took it to bed 
with me till the morning. When I woke I 
thought it over, and I remembered a big roll 
of old stair-carpet up in a garret where 
nobody went — a useless old roll that my 
dear old mother has dragged about with us 
for years — ever since we lived in Russell 
Square, in fact. It's never been touched 
since it came, and never will be. So I 
nipped out and up into the garret with the 
picture, unrolled a few yards of the carpet, 
slipped the canvas in very carefully, painted 
side out, rolled up the carpet again, tied it, 
and shoved it back among the other old 
lumber. And there it can stay, safe as the 
Bank, till we want it again ! " 

"Till we want it again! And when will 
that be?" 

"When we've sold it. You leave it to 
me, my bonny boy. Remember that other 
Gainsborough that was stolen — the ' Duchess.' 
Would that have fetched such a price if it 
hadn't been stolen and boomed up? Not ori 
your life. I'm out to sell that picture for 
you, and I'm going to do it — to say nothing 
of immortal glory, which I'm positively 
shovelling on you where you stand. Hark ! 
There's another reporter. Keep up that 
, savage, worried look — it's just the thing for 
the plundered genius ! " 

But this visitor was no reporter. It was, 
indeed, Mr. Higby Fewston, much more 
alert and affable than yesterday, and eager 
for news of the picture. 

" Is there any chance of getting it ? " he 
asked, with some eagerness. "Have the 
police got on the track of the thief yet ? " 

" No, they haven't — yet," replied Hector 

Bushell, calmly. " But I should think there 
was a very good chance of getting the 
picture, ultimately." 

" I suppose you'll offer a reward ? " 

" Well, we'll have to think it over. It's a 
bit early as yet." 

" Tell me now," Mr. Fewston pursued, 
with increasing animation, "can the picture 
be properly repaired ? Isn't it cut out of the 

"Yes, but that's nothing. It's easily re- 
lined and put back." 

" That's satisfactory. And now as to the 
flowers — I think I remember yellow flowers 
right in the front of the picture. They are 
cowslips, I hope ? " 

" Oh, yes — cowslips, of course," replied 
Hector, with easy confidence, since cowslips 
seemed to be required. While Sydney 
Blenkinsop, who had spotted in a few 
touches of yellow in the foreground because 
it seemed to be wanted, and with a vague 
idea of possible furze-blossoms, or buttercups, 
gasped and wondered. 

" And I suppose more cowslips could be 
put in, if required, by a competent man ? " 

" I don't think any more are required," 
put in Sydney Blenkinsop, decidedly. 

" No — very likely not — just an inquiry. 
I did think at the time there seemed to be 
rather a lot of cowslips for Keston Common, 
but I do a good deal in the * Cowslip ' brand 
of — the — the article I deal in, and there 
might be a possibility of reproducing the 
work as an advertisement. One has to con- 
sider all these things, of course ; and on the 
whole I'd like to buy that picture, if you get 
it back. What about price ? " 

11 Five hundred," said Hector promptly, 
before Sydney could open his mouth. 

"Urn, rather high, isn't it?" commented 
Fewston, equably. " I was thinking of, say, 
three hundred." 

" Well, yes," Hector responded, just as 
affably. " Yesterday that might have done, 
but just now it's to-day." And he regarded 
the margarine magnate with a long, deliberate, 
placid wink. 

" Ah, well, I understand, of course," 
replied Fewston, who appeared to far better 
advantage to-day, discussing business, than 
yesterday, misunderstanding art. " Of course, 
I quite recognise that all this publicity — 
naturally Mr. Blenkinsop wants all the 
benefit possible from it — quite legitimate, of 
course. But there, the picture isn't recovered 
yet. Meantime, I may consider I have the 
refusal of it contingently, I suppose ? You 


Mr -*ffiftt^^^iW y a man of 





business — this may be useful to me. A great 
deal of space is being devoted to Mr, Blen- 
kinsop and his picture in the papers, and I — 
well, it would be worth my while to be in it, 
as conspicuously as possible. Do you 
perceive ? ? ' 

41 1 think I see, To-morrow morning's 
papers, for instance : * We are at liberty to 
state that Mr. Sydney Blenkinsop's now 
famous picture was destined for the galleries 
of one of the best known of our merchant 
princes ; in fact, that in the event of its 
hoped for recovery it is to be purchased by 
Mr. Higby Fewston, and will make a con- 
spicuous feature of that gentleman's collec- 
tion/ I think that can go in— no doubt 
even a little more." 

"Excellent ! Will you do that? And it is 
understood that if you get the picture — you 
say there's a very good chance — I have first 

"At five hundred 

" Three hundred, I 

" Wouldn't do f really, as 
things go. Consider what 
the Gainsborough would 
cost you If you could get 
that, now that it has been 
stolen ! " 

"Well, well, well leave 
it at four hundred, unless 
you get a higher offer ; 
it's rather absurd discuss- 
ing this, with the picture 
lost But I do want to be 
sure that I get proper pub- 
licity in the papers. You'll 
see to that, won't you ? 
You see, this is just the 
time I want it. I am 
[jutting up for the County 
Council, and— this strictly 
bet ween ourselves — there 
is just the possibility that 
I may be turning my busi- 
ness into a limited com- 
pany. So all these things 
help, and I and my family 
are keeping ourselves for- 
ward as much as possible 
just now. Mrs. Fewston f 
for instance, is making an 
appeal for the Stock- 
jobbers' Almshouses, and 
running a sale. And this 
picture — well, if it's re- 
covered we sha'n't quarrel 
about the price so long as you get me well 
into the papers in the meantime. You see, 
I'm perfectly frank — we'll do our best for 
each other, mutually, M 

And so it was settled between Mr. Fewstoo 
and the untiring Bushell, while Sydney 
Hlenkinsop hovered uneasily in the back- 
ground, a superfluous third party in the dis- 
posal of his own picture; which also seemed 
to be superfluous, so far as its merits were 
concerned — or even its present possession, 


Mr, Higby Fewston was well salisfied with 
the next morning's newspapers. Hector 
Bushell saw to it that every office was 
supplied with information of the merits and 
doings of that patron of fine art, and during 
the day the evening papers interviewed Mr, 
Fewston himself, to the combined glory of 

Fe W?EM'.Wte:n Mr Fewslon 



expressed strong views as to the inefficiency 
of the police, and made occasion to allude to 
his views on the London County Council. 
Speaking as an art critic, Mr. Fewston con- 
sidered Mr. Blenkinsop certainly the greatest 
painter of the present time ; and the stolen 
masterpiece was a great loss to him, person- 
ally, the intending purchaser. There could 
be no doubt in Mr. Fewston's mind that the 
same clever gang had captured the two great 
pictures — evidently educated criminals of 
great artistic judgment. And then came 
certain notable and mysterious hints as to 
astonishing things that Mr. Fewston might 
say as to the whereabouts of the plunder, if 
it were judicious — which at this moment of 
course it was not. The " boom " went so well 
that Sydney Blenkinsop himself began to look 
upon his sudden notoriety with a more com- 
placent eye. In another day or two the affair 
had run best part of the ordinary course of a 
newspaper "boom," the Bishop of London 
had given his opinion on it, and while the 
Gainsborough column shrank considerably, 
the Blenkinsop column became a mere 
paragraph at its foot. It would seem to be 
the proper moment for the recovery of the 

And now it grew apparent that this was the 
great difficulty. What had been done was 
easy enough ; it had almost done itself — 
with the constant help of Hector. But to 
restore the picture — naturally, unsuspiciously, 
and without putting anybody in jail — this 
was a job that grew more difficult the more 
it was considered. Hector Bushell grew un- 
wontedly thoughtful, and Sydney Blenkinsop 
began to get ungrateful again. He had been 
dragged up a blind alley, he said, and now 
he wanted to know the way out. Hector 
smoked a great many strong cigars without 
being able to tell him. 

They parted moodily one night toward the 
end of the week, and the next day Sydney 
was alone in his studio all the morning. He 
was growing fidgety and irritable, notwith- 
standing his ■ new-found eminence, and he 
wondered what kept Hector away. Was he 
going to shirk now that the real pinch was 
coming? Work was impossible, so the par- 
taker in Gainsborough's glory loafed and 
smoked and kicked his furniture, and smoked 
and loafed again. His lunch w r as brought 
him from the corner public-house, and he ate 
what he could of it. Then he took to look- 
ing out of door, as is the useless impulse of 
everybody anxiously awaiting a visitor. He 
had done it twice, and was nearing the lobby 
again when the cry of a running newsboy 

struck his ear. He pulled the door open 
hurriedly, for he seemed to hear something 
like the name Gainsborough in the shout. 
There came the boy, shouting at each studio 
door as he passed and waving his papers. 
Sydney extended his coin and snatched the 
paper as the boy ran past. It was fact ; he 
had heard the name of Gainsborough, for the 
thousandth time that week. The picture had 
been discovered in the thief's lodgings, but 
the thief had bolted and was still at large. 
There was not much of it under the staring 
headline, but so much was quite clear. The* 
picture was found, but the thief had got 

Wasn't there a chance in this ? Surely 
there ought to be. Why didn't Hector 
Bushell come ? Surely, if they were prompt 
enough, some little dodge might be built on 
this combination of circumstances by which 
his picture might be brought to light again — 
also without the thief. They knew, now, 
where the thief had been, and that he was 
gone. This was good news. Hector could 
certainly make something of that. Where 
was he ? 

He was at the door, in the lobby, in the 
studio, even as the thought passed. Flushed 
and rumpled, wild of eye, with dust on his 
coat and a dint in his hat, Hector Bushell 
dropped into the nearest seat with an inar- 
ticulate " G'lor ! " 

" What's up ? " cried Sydney. " The Gains- 
borough — do you know ? They've got it ! " 

" Blow the Gainsborough — where's the 
Blenkinsop ? Sydney, it's a bust-up ! " 

"What is?" 

" The whole festive caboodle ! The entire 
bag of tricks ! My mother's been and sent 
the roll of stair-carpet to the jumble sale ! " 


"Jumble sale — Mrs. Fewston's jumble sale; 
Stockjobbers' Almshouse Fund ! " 

"Great heavens ! "—Sydney leapt for his 
hat—" where is it ? When is it ? What " 

" No go !" interrupted Hector, with a feeble 
wave of the hand. " No go ! It's to-day — 
I've been there. Blazed off there the moment 
I knew it. They'd sold the carpet to an old 
woman just before I arrived. Streaked out 
after her and caught her two streets off; she 
was shoving it home in a perambulator. I 
grabbed it with both hands and offered to 
buy it. I was a bit wild and sudden, I 
expect, and the old girl didn't under- 
stand ; started screaming, and laid into 
me with an umbrella. I wasn't going to 
wait for a crowd,: -go Irxml with the stair- 
carpet ^^^^^^^long the 



pavement. There was no picture in it — 
nothing ! I kicked it the whole length out, 
all along the street, and then pelted round 
the next corner while the old party was tangled 
up with the other end. Sydney, my boy, it's 

pretty plain. He could never afford to 
stultify himself publicly after the advertise- 
ment he had so anxiously gained. And the 
interviews in the newspapers ! And the 
County Council election ! And the limited 



my belief Fewston's got that picture now ! 
The carpet was sent to the house ! " 

"What in the world shall we do? We're 
in a fine sort of mess ! " 

For a time Hector Bushell had no answer. 
It was quite clear that Fewston must be in 
possession of the picture, for the carpet had 
been in his house since the evening of the 
day before yesterday. More, now that he 
came to rescue his memory from the con- 
fusion wrought by his recent adventure, it 
struck him that at the jumble sale Mrs. 
Fewston had treated him to a cool stare of 

severe disdain which At the moment 

it had passed almost unnoticed, such was his 
excitement, but now he remembered it well 
enough. Also, it suggested many things. 
Why had nothing been heard from Fewston ? 
He had had a full day and a half to flare up 
in, if to flare up he had wished, but he was 
lying low. Why? The answer seemed 

company ! It was plain that Mr. Fewston s 
interests were not wholly divorced from their 
own, after all. 

" What shall we do ? " reiterated Sydney, 
wildly. " We're in a most hideous mess ! " 

" Mess ? " repeated Hector, straightening 
his hat and gradually assuming his customary 
placidity. " Mess ? Oh, I don't know, 
after all. I was a bit startled at first, but we 
haven't accused anybody, you know. We're 
perfectly innocent. If you like to authorize 
me to get in at your studio window to 
fetch a picture, why shouldn't you ? And 
if the police like to jump to conclusions — 
well, they ought to know better. Lend me 
a clothes-brush." 

" But what about Fewston ? " 

" That's why I want the clothes-brush. 
He's in it pretty deep after those published 
interviews, eh ? We'll go round and collect 
that money." 

by Google 

Original from 

J*rom a\ 






WO days after I had arrived 
at Entebbe the Governor took 
me over to Kampala. The 
distance between the ancient 
and the administrative capital 
is about twenty four miles. 
The road j although un metalled, runs over 
such firm, smooth sandstone, almost polished 
by the rains, that, except in a few places, 
it wo ul 4 carry a motor-car well, and a 
bicycle is an excellent means of progression. 
The Uganda Government motor-cars have 
not yet, however, arrived, and meanwhile the 
usual method is to travel by rickshaw. 
Mounted in this light bicycle - wheeled 
carriage, drawn by one man between the 
shafts and pushed by three more from behind, 
we were able to make rather more than six 
miles an hour in very comfortable style. 

The rickshaw-boys, who were neatly dressed 
in white tunics and red caps, were relieved 
every eight miles. They have their own way 
of doing business. Krom the moment when 
the travellers are seated in the rickshaw and 

Vol, xxxvi- 1B Copyright, 190B, by W 

their labour begins, they embark upon an 
ever- varying but absolutely interminable anti- 
phony, which, if it exhausts their breath, 
serves undoubtedly to keep their spirits up. 
" Burrulum," cry the pushers ; " Huma," says 
the puller. (t urn," say the pushers 
again, and so on over and over for a very 
long time- All these chaunts have their 
meanings, and if the traveller is found to be 
heavy or known to be ignorant of the language, 
he would not always be complimented by 
a correct translation. The phrase 1 have 
<] noted means "iron upon wood"; and its 
signification is that the iron of European 
strength and skill, however superior, yet 
cannot get along without the wood of 
native labour and endurance. With such 
unexceptionable sentiments no one would 
quarrel Vet even these lose their flavour 
by repetition, and after half an hour of 
11 Burrulum "and " Huma" I was constrained 
to ask the singers whether they could not 


in-hCou .Spencer- 

possibly manage to .convey us in silence 
["hey tried ttajr best but I could see the 

,^..s«n«IJiHlitolTY" OF MICHIGAN 



were unhappy, and after a while, out of com- 
passion and to improve the pace, I withdrew 
the ban, and the chorus was joyfully resumed 
in a new and more elaborate form. 

The manners of the Baganda are cere- 
monious to a degree. They well deserve Sir 
Harry Johnston's description of them as 4 *the 
Japanese of Africa." If you say "Good 
morning" to a stranger on an English road, 
it is as like as not that his surprise will throw 
him into a posture of self-defence ; but when 
two Baganda meet they begin to salute each 
other as soon as they come within earshot. 
" How are you ? " cries die one. " Who am I 
that you should care to know?" replies the 
other, (t Humble though 1 be, yet I have 
dared," rejoins ihe lirst. "But say first how 
are^w*," continues the second* 4 * The better 

time his face beams with a most benignant 
and compulsive smile, and he purrs 4t A — o, 
a— o, a — o," as much as to say, ** My cup of 
joy is overflowing/' 

It is not in accordance with our ideas that 
man should kneel to man, and one feels un- 
comfortable to see it done. Vet it should 
not be thought that the action, as performed 
by the Baganda, involves or implies any 
servility* It is their good maimers — and 
meant to be no more. Nor, once you nre 
used to it, do they seem to lose at all in 
dignity. Only they win your heart. 

The road from Entebbe to Kampala passes 
through delicious country. Along its whole 
length a double avenue of rubber trees has 
just been planted, and behind these on each 
side are broad strips of cotton plants, looking 



( f ■'. •-.'■■:.'.■ r , -V 

for the honour you have done me," is the 
answer, By this they have already passed 
each ol her and there is only time for the 
Parthian affability, "The honour is mine and 
I shall treasure it," and a quavering of 
delicately -modulated, long-drawn " A — a— 
a's n of contentment and goodwill which 
gradually die away in the distance, 
leaving neither of them the worse circum- 
stanced nor the better informed. I must add, 
for the reader's caution, that the aforesaid 
dialogue is not an invariable rilual. The 
phrases may be varied ad i?tfi?iitum to suit 
the occasion; but it will suffice as, an illus- 
tration of these roadside courtesies. 

If you wish to make a Baganda perfectly 
happy, all you need to do is to say, i( Way 
wally/' which means a sort of supremely 
earnest "Well done/* The moment this 
talismanic expression has left your lips the 
native to whom it is addressed will probably 
fall on his knees and, clasping his two hands 
together, will sway them from side to side, as 
if he were playing a concertina, while all the 

beautiful with their yeIlow r flowers or pinky- 
white bolls, American upland cotton grown in 
Uganda actually commands a higher price in 
the Manchester market than when it is grown 
in the United States. There appears to be 
practically no natural difficulty in its cultiva- 
tion throughout the larger part of Uganda, 
A great development is only a question of 
organisation and — money. 

But I have forgotten that we have been 
moving swiftly along the Kampala road r and 
now we are almost in sight of the city. 
Almost, but not quite ; for, to tell the truth, 
no one has ever seen Kampala. The traveller 
sees *hc Government buildings and residences 
neat and prim on one hill : he sees the 
King's house and his Ministers 1 houses on 
another. Upon a third, a fourth, or a fifth hill 
he may discern successively the Protestant 
Cathedral, the Catholic Mission, and the 
White Father's Monastery. But Kampala, 
the home of sixty thousand persons, is per- 
manently invisible- The whole town is buried 

un toivfeiffm€H^r erab,e banana 



plantations, which afford shade and food to its 
people, and amid which their huts are thickly 
scattered and absolutely concealed. 

We were still three miles out of this 
"garden city" when the native reception 
began, and we travelled for a quarter of a 
mile between lines of white- robed Baganda^ 
all mustered by their chiefs and clapping 
their hands in sign of welcome. At last our 
procession of rickshaws reached a hillock by 
the roadside, at the top of which stood a 


pavilion, beautifully constructed of stout 
elephant grass woven together with curious 
art* Down from this eminence, over a path- 
way strewn with rushes, came to meet us the 
King and his notables in a most imposing 
array. Daudi Chewa, the King or Kabaka 
of Uganda, is a graceful, distinguished-look- 
ing little boy, eleven years old. He was 
simply dressed in a flowing black robe edged 
with gold, and a little white gold-rimmed capu 
Around him were the Council of Regency ; 





and at his right hand stood the Prime 
Minister, Sir A polo Kagwar, a powerful, 
determined -looking man, wearing a crimson, 
gold - laced robe, on which shone many 
decorations, several British war medals, and 
the Order of St. Michael and St. George. 

We all shook hands and were then led up 
into the pavilion, where we took our seats on 
wicker chairs and ate sweet jellies while we 
conversed. The King, who is being most 
carefully educated by an English tutor, under- 
stands and speaks English quite well, but on 
this occasion he seemed too shy to say much 
more than " Yes " or " No," in a low, sweet 
drawl, and this formal interview soon came to 
an end. 

The afternoon was consumed in ceremony; 
for the Commissioner of Uganda had to be 
sworn in the rank of Governor, to which he 
has been lately raised ; and there was a 
parade of troops, in which some five or six 
hundred very smart ■ looking soldiers took 
part, headed by the Kampala company of 
Sikhs, It was not until the shadows began 

his side, and the Prime Minister explained 
that the Baganda would show us the cere- 
mony of swearing a chief. One of the most 
portly and dignified of the councillors there- 
upon advanced into the centre of the room, 
threw himself face downward on the ground, 
and poured out a torrent of asseverations of 
loyalty. After a few minutes he rose and 
began brandishing his spears, chaunting his 
oath all the while, until he had created an 
extraordinary appearance of passion. Finally 
he rushed from the building to go and slay 
the King's enemies outside. It was not 
until he returned a moment later, calm, 
sedate, and respectable, that I realized, from 
the merry smile on his face and from the 
mirth of the company, that he was "only 
pretending,' 3 and that the ceremony was 
merely a representation given to interest 
us. The incident is remarkable because 
it illustrates the rapidity with which the 
Kaganda people are leaving their past behind 
them, Already they laugh at their old 
selves. Ceremonies which twenty years ago 

Frvm el 



to lengthen that we visited the Kalxikaon the 
Royal Hill. He received us in his Parliament 
House, In this large and beautifully-con- 
structed grass building about seventy chiefs 
and Baganda notables were assembled. 
The little Kahaka sat on his throne 
and his subjects grouped themselves around 
trees before him. We were given seats at 

had a solemn and awful significance are 
to-day reproduced by this reflective people 
in much the same spirit as the citizens of 
Coventry revive the progress of I^ady Godiva* 
The same thing happened at the war-dance 
the next day. Two or three thousand men, 
naked afifripirabfr<fi*TI war, rushed frantically 
^U^E^Ty«P^ICT+P@^ <>f drums and 



barbaric music, with every sign of earnestness 
and even frenzy. Vet a few minutes later 
they were laughing sheepishly at one another, 
and bowing to us like actors before the cur- 
tain, and the Prime Minister was making a 
speech to explain that this was meant to be a 
pageant of the bad 

old tunes repro- 
duced forour benefit 
Indeed, so unaccus- 
tomed to carry arms 
had the warriors 
become that not one 
in ten could find a 
spear to arm him- 
self with, and they 
had to come with 
sticks and other 

Even a comic 
element was pro 
vided in the shape 
of a warrior painted 
all over in a 
ridiculous manner, 
and held by two 
others with a rope 
tied r o u 11 d his 
middle. This, we 
were told, was u the 
bravest man in the 
army/' who had to 
he restrained lest he 
should rush into 
battle too soon. It 
is not easy to convey 
the air of honest fun 
and good humour 

which pervaded these curious performances, 
or to measure the intellectual progress which 
the attitude of the Baganda towards them 

The Kabaka gave us tea in his house. It 
is a comfortable European building, quite 
small and modest, but nicely furnished, and 
adorned with familiar English prints and 
portraits of Queen Victoria and King 
Edward, Gradually he got l he better of 
his shyness, and told me that he liked 
football more than anything else, and 
that his mathematical studies had advanced 
as far as U G,CM., T ' initials which never 
fail to stir disagreeable memories in my 
mind. He can write a very good letter 
in English, rides well on a nice pony, and 
will probably become a well educated and 
accomplished man. Altogether it is a very 
pleasing spectacle to find in the heart of 
Africa, and amid so much barbarism, squalor, 

and violence, this island of gentle manners 
and peaceful civilization. 

The next day was one unending pilgrimage* 
I have described how Kampala lies under 
the leaves of the plantain groves about the 
slopes of many hills. Each hill has its 

special occupants 

/■Yum (i Phutotfmph, 

and purpose* Each 
of the different 
Christian missions 
has a hill to itself, 
and in the bad old 
days a Maxim gun 
was not thought at 
all an inappropriate 
aid to Christian en- 
deavour. It would, 
however, be very 
unfair to charge the 
missionaries with 
having created the 
feuds and struggles 
which convulsed 
Uganda twelve years 
ago, The accident 
that the line of 
cleavage between 
French and British 
influence was also 
the line of cleavage 
between Catholic 
and Protestant con- 
verts imparted a 
religious complexion 
to what was in reality 
a fierce political dis- 
pute. These 
troubles are now 
definitely at an end. The arrival upon the 
scene of an English Catholic mission has 
prevented national rivalries and religious 
differences from mutually embittering one 
another. The erection of a stable Govern- 
ment and the removal of all doubts about 
the future of Uganda have led to an entire 
abatement of strife among devoted men 
engaged in a noble work. Not only is there 
peace among the different Christian missions 
themselves, but the Government of Uganda, 
SO far from w f atching missionary enterprise 
with sour disfavour, is thoroughly alive to the 
inestimable services which have been and 
are daily being rendered by the missions to 
the native population, and very excellent 
relations prevail 

In duty bound I climbed one hill after 
another and _ endeavoured to make myself 
acquainted wim l..e details of mission work 
in Kam[ , «il4R5BY€ompris)#.jAtfe r y form of 

r 4 2 


moral and social activity. Apart from their 
spiritual work, which needs no advocacy here, 
the missionaries have undertaken and are now 
maintaining the whole educational system 
of the country* They have built many 
excellent schools, and thousands of young 

white-dressed youths upon the floor. The 
Kabaka and Sir A polo Kagwar, who hay him- 
self five sons at the school, were upon the 
platform. The Governor presided. The 
Bishop made a speech. The schoolboys sang 
English songs and hymns in very good tune 

Fnatx a\ 



Baganda are being taught to read and write 
ia their own language* The whole country 
is dotted with subsidiary mission stations, 
each one a centre of philanthropic and 
Christian effort There are good hospitals, 
with skilful doctors and nurses or sisters of 
charity, in connection with all the missions. 
The largest of these, belonging to the Church 
Missionary Society, is a model of what a 
tropical hospital for natives ought to be. 
Technical education is now being added to 
these services, and in this it is to be hoped 
the Government will be able to co-operate, 
I do not know of any other part of the world 
where missionary influence and enterprise 
have been so beneficently exerted, or where 
more valuable results have been achieved. 

On Nam i rem be Hill, where the Church 
Missionary Society have their head quarters, a 
really fine cathedral, with three tall, quaintj 
thatched spires, has been built out of very 
primitive materials ; and thi^ is almost the 
only building in Uganda which offers the 
slightest attempt at architectural display. 
Under the shadow of this I found myself on 
the afternoon of the 23th of November, 
engaged in opening a high school for scholars 
who are more advanced than can be 
instructed in the existing establishments, 
A large and well-dressed audience, native and 
1 iimptan, filled a good sized room. The 
scholars crowded together in a solid mass of 

and rhythm. It was astonishing to look at 
the map of the British Empire hanging on 
the wall and to realize that all this was taking 
place near the north-western corner of the 
Victoria Nyanza. 

It is eight miles from Kampala to 
Munyonyo, its present port on the lake, 
and this distance we covered in rickshaws 
over a shocking road, Munyonyo is itself 
little more than a jetty and a few sheds, 
but it affords a very good example of the 
salutary effects of cutting down the bush and 
forest. Mosquitoes and tsetses have been 
absolutely banished from the cleared area, 
and a place which a year ago was a death- 
trap is now perfectly safe and healthy* Plans 
are now on foot to make a new port a little 
fan her along the coast at a point only five 
miles away from Kampala ; and when this 
has been connected with the capital, as it 
must be, by a line of mono rail tramway, 
there is every reason to expect a substantial 
and growing trade. 

The Sir William JMackinnon* a venerable 
vessel of the Uganda Marine, awaited our 
party, and we steamed off on the smooth 
waters of the lake, through an archipelago 
of beautiful islands- — each one more inviting 
than the other — and all depopulated by 
sleeping sickness* All day long we voyaged 
in these sheltered waters, and in the evening 
the IliyHtl Q ( |UiJ3(gUKclllGAKo our destina- 



tiorL One cannot help admiring the luck 
which led Speke to his thrilling discovery of 
the source of the Nile* There are five 
hundred gulfs and inlets on the northern 
shore of Lake Victoria, and nothing dis- 
tinguishes this one from the rest. No current 
is perceptible to the ordinary mariner until 
within a few miles of the rapids, and although 
the presumption that so vast a body of fresh 
w f ater would have an overflow somewhere had 
behind it a backing of strong probability, the 
explorer might have searched for a year with- 
out finding the spot* Instead of which he 
drifted and paddled gently along until all of 
a sudden the murmur of a distant cataract 
and the slight acceleration in the pace of his 
canoe drew him to the long-sought birthplace 
of the most wonderful river in the world. 

It was dark when we landed at Jinja, and 
I could not properly see the preparations 
made for our reception by the local chiefs 
and the Indian traders, of whom there was a 
considerable crowd. The darkness, other- 
wise a cause of disappointment, afforded the 
opportunity for just the sort of brave act one 
so often finds a British officer ready to do. 

in after him in the darkness and among the 
crocodiles and fished him out safe and 
sound t an act of admirable behaviour which 
certainly requires the attention of the Royal 
Humane Society. I am not quite sure that 
in all parts of Africa so high a standard of 
honour and respect for the life of the humble 
native would prevail. 

Jinja is destined to become a very im- 
portant place in the future economy of 
Central Africa. Situated at the point where 
the Nile flows out of the Great Lake, it is at 
once on the easiest line of water eommunica 
tion with Lake Albert and the Soudan, and 
also where great water-power is available. In 
years to come the shores of this splendid bay 
may be crowned with long rows of comfort- 
able tropical villas and imposing offices, and 
the gorge of the Nile crowded with factories 
and warehouses, There is power enough to 
gin all the cotton and saw all the wood in 
Uganda, and it is here that one of the 
principal emporia of tropical produce will 
certainly be created, In these circumstances 
it is a pity to handicap the town with an out- 
landish name. It would be much better to 

AT RtJ'oN FALLb — MH. CHUKCIMU., Mft+ WATTS {|j| KivL i OK (JK 1'LHILIC WORK?, KKTriSH KAS1" AKHlCft), uif GDVKllNOj?, 
JYpjHfiJ CAM A J.N £TiVlLNSL)N t H. E P , M K, A. UtfVl/tt, LBBU TENANT FLSHBOUK^K, RuK. f / Wnym/^ . 

As the baggage was being landed from the 
steamer on to the jetty, a poor coolie slipped 
under his load, and in an instant was 
engulfed in the deep black waters below* 
Whereupon, as a matter of course, a young 
civilian in the Political Department jumped 

call it Ripon Falls, after the beautiful 
cascades which lie beneath it, and from whose 
force its future prosperity will be derived. 

The Ripon .Falls are, for their own sake, 
well worth a vtsft^J'^ne'"^!^ springs out of 
the VictBMIfrKyM^ as 



wide as the Thames at London Bridge, and 
this imposing river rushes down a stairway 
of rock from fifteen to twenty feet deep, in 
smooth, swirling slopes of green water It 
would be perfectly easy to harness the whole 
river and let the Nile begin its long and 

to private persons ? How long, on the other 
hand, is a Govern ment, if not prepared to 
act itself, entitled to bar the way to others? 
This question is raised in a multitude of 
diverse forms in almost all the great 
dependencies of the Crown. But in Uganda 

fVflm (f } 

"J FiJi NILfc UfcJ..i.HV HM'UA FALLS. 


beneficent journey to the sea by leaping 
through a turbine. It is possible that no- 
where else in the world could so enormous 
a mass of water be held up by so little 
masonry, Two or three short dams from 
island to island across the falls would 
enable, at an inconceivably small cost, the 
whole level of the Victoria Nyanza— over 
an expanse of a hundred and fifty thousand 
square miles — to be gradually raised six or 
seven feet ; would gready increase the avail- 
able water- power ; would deepen the water 
in Kavirondo Bay, so as to admit steamers 
of much larger draught ; and, finally, 
would enable the lake to be maintained at 
a uniform level, so that immense areas of 
swampy foreshore, now submerged, now again 
exposed, according to the rainfalls, would be 
converted either into clear water or dry land, 
to the benefit of man and the incalculable 
destruction of mosquitoes. 

As one watches the surging waters of the 
Ripon Falls and endeavours to compute the 
mighty energies now running to waste, but 
all within the reach of modem scienre, the 
problem of Uganda rises in a new form on 
the mind. All this water power belongs to 
he State, Ought it ever to be surrendered 

the arguments for the State ownership and 
employment of the natural resources of the 
country seem to present themselves in their 
strongest and most formidable array. 

Uganda is a native State, It must not be 
compared with any of those colonies where 
there is a white population already estab^ 
lished, nor again with those inhabited by 
trills of nomadic barbarians. It finds its 
counterparts among the great native States of 
India, where Imperial authority is exercised 
in the name and often through the agency of 
a native prince and his own officers* 

This combination of the external brain and 
the native hand results in a form of govern- 
ment often highly acceptable to the general 
body of the inhabitants, who are confronted 
with no sudden or arbitrary changes in the 
long-accustomed appearances of things. But 
it involves all the administration of affairs in 
a degree of complexity and delicacy which is 
absent from simpler and cruder systems. In 
such circumstances there cannot be much 
opening for the push and drive of ordinary 
commercial enterprise. The hustling business 
man— admirably suited to the rough and 
tumble of con^ietitiK&iproduction in Europe 
or yW^Cifia^^^ ^^ H^gAW^^&'-^^u^ and 



even a dangerous figure when introduced 
into the smooth and leisurely development 
of a native State. The Baganda will not be 
benefited either morally or materially by 
contact with modern money-making or 
modern money-makers. When a man is 
working only for the profits of his company 
and is judged by the financial results alone, 
he does not often under the sun of Central 
Africa acquire the best method of dealing 
with natives ; and all sorts of difficulties and 
troubles will follow any sudden incursion 
of business enterprise into the forests and 
gardens of Uganda. And even if the 
country is more rapidly developed by these 
agencies, the profits will not go to the 
Government and people of Uganda to be 
used in fostering new industries, but to 
divers persons across the sea who have no 
concern other than purely commercial in its 
fortunes. This is not to advocate the 
arbitrary exclusion of private capital and 
enterprise from Uganda. Carefully directed 
and narrowly controlled, opportunities for 
their activities will nd doubt occur. But the 
natural resources of the country should, as 
far as possible, be developed by the Govern- 
ment itself, even though that may involve 
the assumption of many new functions. 

Indeed, it would be hard to find a country 
where the conditions were more favourable 
than in Uganda to a practical experiment in 
State Socialism. The land is rich ; the people 
pacific and industrious. There are no great 
differences between class and class. One 
staple article of food meets the needs of the 
whole population, and produces itself almost 
without the aid of man. There are no 
European vested interests to block the way. 
Nowhere are the powers of the Government 
to regulate and direct the activities of the 
people more overwhelming or more compre- 
hensive. The superiority of knowledge in 
the rulers is commanding. Their control upon 
the natives is exerted through almost every 
channel ; and besides the secular authorities 
— native and Imperial — there is the spiritual 
and educative influence of the missionaries to 
infuse human sympathy and moral earnestness 
into the regular machinery of State. 

The first, and perhaps the greatest, difficulty 
which confronts the European Socialist is the 
choosing of Governors to whom the positively 
awful powers indispensable to a communistic 
society are to be entrusted. If a race of 
beings could be obtained when and as 
required from a neighbouring planet, whose 

practical superiority in virtue, science, wisdom, 
and strength was so manifest as to be 
universally acclaimed, this difficulty would 
disappear, and we might with composure 
await the decision of popular elections with 
all their defects and advantages. But in the 
absence of this dispensation the problem of 
how rulers are to be selected, and how, having 
been selected, they are to be controlled or 
changed, remains the first question of politics, 
even in days when the functions of Govern- 
ment are, in general, restricted to the modest 
limits of laissez-faire. 

In Uganda, however, this difficulty does 
not exist. A class of rulers is provided by 
an outside power as remote from and, in all 
that constitutes fitness to direct, as superior 
to the Baganda as Mr. Wells's Martians would 
have been to us. The British administration 
is in its personnel absolutely disinterested. 
The officials draw their salaries, and that is 
all. They have no end to serve, except the 
improvement of the country and the con- 
tentment of its people. By that test and that 
test alone are they judged. In no other way 
can they win approbation or fame. They are 
furthermore controlled in the exercise of their 
functions by a superior authority, specially 
instructed in this class of administrations, 
and itself answerable to a Parliament elected 
on a democratic franchise. At no point in the 
whole chain of command is there any room for 
corruption, usurpation, or gross inefficiency. 

It is clear that larger powers could be 
entrusted to the State in regard to the labour 
of its citizens than would ever be accorded 
to private employers. The subjects of every 
European Power have accepted the obliga- 
tion of military service to defend their 
respective countries from external attack. 
The Baganda, relieved from this harsh 
obsession, have no higher duty than to culti- 
vate and develop the beautiful land they live 
in. And if it were desired to organize 
scientifically, upon a humane and honourable 
basis, the industry of an entire population, 
and to apply the whole fruits of their labour 
to their own enrichment and elevation, no 
better conditions are likely to be discovered 
than those which now exist in Uganda. 

It might at any rate be worth while to 
make such an experiment, if only as a prelude 
to those more general applications of the 
principles of Socialism which are held in 
some quarters to be so necessary. 

VoL xxx vL— 19. 

{To be continued.) 


MepKi^topl^ele^ osi fKe Link®. 



T was a constant source of 
disappointment to his many 
friends and admirers that John 
Lee, of Marsland Heath, had 
never won the Open Cham- 
pionship. He was a glorious 
player, and especially as fine a driver as ever 
swung a club ; so far would he hit that his 
drives would not infrequently find a grave in 
bunkers reserved for the second shots of 
ordinary mortals, and John would scratch his 
head with an aggrieved air before dislodging 
the ball with a niblick and a shower of sand. 
One weak joint there was in his harness — 
those miserable little short putts, that he 
never could make sure of. For a day or two 
he would cope with them triumphantly, and 
then came the crash — a putt too .short or a 
putt too long, and life was never the same 
again. Yet, even with this millstone hanging 
round his neck, I^e 
had twice been 
secon d in the 
Championship, and 
in either case 
any th ing approach- 
ing decent putting 
would have made 
him a comfortable 

Poor old John 
battled manfully with 
the putts. He would 
go out on to the last 
green of an evening 
and wrestle in prayer 
with his weakness. 
Putters of wood, 
iron, and aluminium 
lay scattered in pro- 
fusion on theground, 
and now with one 
and now with the 
other would he woo 
the fickle goddess 
of the green, till his 
back ached with 
stooping and his 
eyes swam with look- 
ing at the elusive 
little white ball that 
would not go where 




it was told. Sometimes he thought he had 
got the secret and would march home, flushed 
with a modest confidence. Was it really 
possible that he had lived all these years 
without realizing that just that slight crook of 
the elbow, combined with the use of an 
aluminium putter— an iron one was absurd — 
made it a sheer impossibility to miss? 

Yet the very next day— ridiculous and im- 
probable though it might appear the putts 
were missed and the unhappy groping after a 
new remedy had to begin all over again. 

John got so tired of hearing people say, 
"Why, I could putt better with the handle 
of my umbrella," that he was reputed to have 
been seen stealing out one night under cover 
of dusk, armed with two ancient umbrellas, 
one with a round knob and the other with a 
curved handle, to see if by chance some word 
of wisdom had fallen from the mouth of the 


It was more 
flattering but almost 
equally tiresome to 
have to listen to 
the constant lamen- 
tations of Postle- 
thwaite the million- 
aire, stricken down 
in his middle age 
with golfing insanity, 
that he could not 
drive as far as he 

" Dash it all, 
John/' lie would say, 
"here am I would 
give ten thousand 
pounds for another 
few yards only on 
to my drive, and I 
can't make them go, 
I've been able to 
get most things I 
wanted in this life, 
but I can J t get that 
Infernal ball to go 
another foot, and my 
best shots just fall 
into all the bunkers, 
confound it ! while 
yours carry them 






with about sixty yards to spare. It's not 
fair," whined the poor man, perspiring with 
the effort of repeated niblick shots. 

John got a little restive under this flood of 
complaints. " Well, sir," he said, " I'd will- 
ingly give up twenty yards of my drive if 
I could make sure of them darned little 
putts. Why, sir, at that last Championship 

I missed " and then would pull himself 

together and laboriously encourage the legs 
and arms and wrists of the millionaire to 
behave in a reasonable manner. " Try and 
look more compacter like," he would say, his 
meaning struggling not very successfully to 
find expression, and then — in a rare flight of 
imagination— "Use your 'ips more" ; and so 
the weary lesson went on. 

John was not, as may be gathered, a 
particularly inspired teacher, but his great 
reputation as a player brought him pupils 
from afar off. He was not, therefore, much 
surprised to see a stranger walk into his shop 
one day and ask, in a rather peremptory 
tone, for a lesson. 

John had just heard with profound thank- 
fulness that a lady could not come for her 
lesson. He was terribly bored with his lady 
pupils — you could not see what they were 
doing with their legs, and if you alluded to 
them they didn't like it — and they did miss 
the ball so terribly often. He had hoped, 
therefore, for a little peace, and was just 
going to say that he was engaged. He 
looked up at the stranger ; there was nothing 
particular about him — rather a dark, satur- 
nine type of face and a pair of dark eyes 
with a curious steely glitter in them. There 
was, as I say, nothing particular about him, 
but somehow John felt that he couldn't 
refuse him. He just picked up a club, took 
a pocketful of the villainous old balls that he 
kept for his pupils, and followed his visitor 
out of the shop. 

They walked in silence, the stranger still 
leading, to where there was a fine stretch of 
turf, a little off the beaten track of the 

11 1 don't want a lesson," said the stranger, 
suddenly. " I want a little talk with you." 

" Oh, Lord ! " thought John to himself, 
"one of them interviewers," for he feared 
the Press even as the ladies. 

" No, I am not a reporter," said the other, 
as if answering the unspoken thought, and 
he curled back his lip over his dog tooth 
in a smile that somehow sent a shiver down 
John's back. 

" Listen to me ! " he went on, imperiously. 
"You said the other day that you would 

Digitized by L*OOgle 

willingly give up some of that driving tlvat 
you are so proud of — don't interrupt," as 
John showed signs of denying the charge of 
pride. " You said you would give up some 
of your driving for the power to hole your 
putts. Think once or twice before you 
answer me. Did you mean it ? " 

"The man must be a lunatic," reflected 
John, "and I must humour him." And yet 
he had an uncomfortable feeling that it was 
fear rather than good nature that impelled 

" Yes, sir," he quavered, " I'd give up 
twenty yards and more of my drive if I 
could hole them darned little putts. Why, 
sir, at that last Championship, I do assure 
you " 

" Hush," said the stranger, and his voice 
seemed to freeze the words on John's lips. 
" You shall have your wish on certain con* 
ditions. You may sell a certain number of 
yards off your drive." 

John scratched his head ; this was more 
puzzling than any niblick shot. 

" I don't rightly understand," he said ; 
" you can sell ten yards of some things, sir, 
string or sausage like," he went on, dragging 
his mental depths for appropriate illustrations, 
" but ten yards of drive — I . don't see 
some'ow " 

"Be silent, you dolt," said the stranger, 
fiercely, and John collapsed. " Listen ! 
You have but to make the bargain — 
you'll find a buyer easily enough — and 
the yards will be transferred to him by an 
agency that can do many things that you 
cannot understand. If you don't want 
money you may part with your drives to me 
for putt, that I can give you. Now attend 
to me," and he bent his black eyes on John 
with a piercing glance. " Whenever, before 
you putt, you deliberately wish — you need 
not speak, for I can read your thoughts — but 
whenever you merely wish to hole that putt 
it shall be holed, but for every yard of that 
putt six inches will be taken from your 
drive and can never be replaced. Do you 
accept ? " 

" Poor chap," thought John ; " pYaps it'll 
sort of soothe 'im if I do what 'e wants. All 
right, sir," he said ; " I accepts." 

" One more thing," said the stranger. 
" Beware of using my gift too freely. Your 
present drive is two hundred yards. You 
may sell it till it has gone down to one 
hundred and seventy yards. Should you 
attempt to dispose of it beyond that you will 
lose it all at once and for ever. I say again, 
beware. You think to win the Championship^ 





Take care, lest the price you pay for it be too 

The stranger spoke with a menacing ear- 
nestness that impressed John in spite of 
himself. He had opened his lips to reply 
when a mist seemed to rise before his eyes, 
his head swam, and he tottered and almost 
fell. The whole thing took but a fraction of 
a second ; when he recovered himself the 
same player was still at the top of his swing 
in the distance — in the whole landscape 
nothing had changed, but the stranger was 
gone, utterly and completely. 

John walked homewards very silent and 
thoughtful ; as he stopped in front of the 
shop door he saw a curious mark in the soft 
earth in front He bent down to examine it 
more closely ; it was a solitary hoof mark. 

Even these rather terrifying occurrences 
did not rob oar hero of the sound sleep with 
which good health and a good conscience 
had endowed him, and after a long night's 
rest he awoke, only dreamily conscious that 
something or other curious or interesting had 
happened to him. What was it? What had 
happened ? Then he remembered, and 
laughed aloud. 

"That were a rum go, JJ he said: "that 

chap Dotty he must 'ave been, and 

no mistake. Don't suppose I shall ever see 

'im no more* Funny 'ow 'e managed to slip 
away without my seeing J im, though ; wonder 
'ow'edid it?*; 

There was little time for wonderings, how- 
ever. Breakfast had to be eaten and the 
greens looked to, and John never gave his 
strange visitor another thought till he was 
starting out on a round with the always- 
persevering Mr Postlethwaite, On the very 
first green he missed a putt of a yard, and 
"One more of the old sort, Jack," said the 
millionaire, jocularly. Another one went 
wrong at the third, and he was left with 
yet another of the fatal length to get down 
at the fifth, (< By George/ 5 he thought, a I 
wish I could make sure of this one. Suppose 
that mad chap wasn't gammoning me after 
all ? Six inches off my drive wouldn't be 
much. I'll try it." 

It really was a nasty little putt, for the 
green was keen and fiery, and the hole on 
something of a slope. John concentrated 
his mind in one frantic wish and struck the 
ball. Rap! it went against the back of the 
hole and sat down comfortably enough at 
the bottom, as differently as possible from 
the way in which his putts usually hesitated 
on the brink and just toppled into the hole 
with a last dying kick. 

His visitor KelcI not been mad; the thing 




was not a nightmare, but a fact He could 
hole any putt he pleased — and then came 
the shameful thought that he had cheated — 
he, John Lee, had cheated It was not golf 
at all if you knew the ball was going into 
the hole. 

"That's your hole, that last one/' he 
stammered. " I didn't put that putt in fair, 
sir/ 1 

" Didn't put it in fair ? " cried the astonished 
millionaire. "Why, I never saw a ball 
cleaner hit in my life." 

"It's not that, sir/' said John ; "it was 'it 
fair enough, but it wasn't me as 'it it not 
really, It was the devil as done it, sir," he 
went on, in an awestruck whisper ; " leastways, 
I can't think who else 'e can 'ave been, *E 
come to me last night and says as 'ow I 
could put in any putt I wants to just by 
wishing it, and then off p e goes — just dis- 
appears in a kind of a mist like." 

Mr, Postlethwaite let his club drop on the 
grass and gasped at John in amazement. 

11 Devil !— disappear in a mist ! Why, 
man, you've had a touch of the sun or you've 
been practising putting too hard. Good 
heavens, don't tell me you're drunk, John — 
at this hour in the morning, too." 

" No, sir, I'm not drunk," replied John, 
steadily* "It's Gospel truth as I'm telling 
you. I can hole them putts, and my 
drives " He stopped abruptly, as if recol- 
lecting something, and then 
went on, excitedly, " Look 
'ere> sir, You're always 
going on as 'ow you want 
some yards of my drive* 
What'll you give me for 
twenty yards on to your 
drive ? ■ — which you shall 
'ave 'em as sure as my 
name's John Lee, Will 
you give me a thousand 
pounds?" said John, 
naming the largest lump 
sum of money that had ever 
entered into his mind. 

It was Mr. Postleth wake's 
turn to be alarmed now. 
Was the man a maniac or 
a blackmailer ? At any 
rate, he had better pay him 
the money. It was easy 
enough to stop the cheque. 

" Come on, sir," said 
John, seeing him waver ; 
"money down and the 
twenty yards are yours." 

The millionaire drew a ih he uiskt down to 

cheque-book and a fountain-pen from his 
pocket and wrote a cheque with a trembling 

" I don 3 t think my bankers will know my 
signature, anyhow/' he said to himself as he 
surveyed the wavering and disjointed letters, 
and then aloud : M Here you are, John, 
here's your cheque ; and now 1 must be 
going," and with a murmured reference to 
an important engagement he made as if to 
slink away. 

John stood astonished, for it had not 
occurred to him that he was supposed to be 
a homicidal maniac. 

"Why, sir," he said, "you're never goin£ 
in now without ever trying those twenty 
yards ? Just have one shot, sir," he pleaded, 
"to see if it's all right." 

The millionaire looked at him with an 
apprehensive glance, There he stood, the 
picture of good nature — not in the least like 
any murderer Mr* Postlethwaite had ever 




seen at Mme. Tussaud's. Well, he would 
risk it. He teed his ball warily, so as to have 
John where he could see him — a frontal 
attack would be less appalling. Then he 
lifted up his club and smote, and away went 
the ball towards a distant bunker. 

" It's over it, sir," said John, smiling. 

" Nonsense ! " said the millionaire, irrit- 
ably. " I never carried it in my life " ; but a 
faint hope was dawning in his breast that he 
would carry it. On flew the ball ; it had 
carried it, and the impossible was accom- 

"By gad, sir," he shouted, "you're a 
magician, a conjurer, sir, by gad ! I never 
saw such a thing in my life," and he fairly 
ran after his ball. t 

It was a weary but happy millionaire that 
ultimately retired to his lunch, but John 
went home very grave, and wrote off twenty 
yards from his drive in a little pocket-book. 
He must keep a record of his disbursements, 
so as to be well within the mark. Twenty 
yards was a lot, but, then, so were one 
thousand pounds. How many stockings 
would be needed to hold them ? The vista of 
speculation thus opened up was altogether 
too vast for him. 

John had one or two exhibition matches 
to play before the Championship, and out of 
these ordeals he came with flying colours. 
His driving was not quite so long as it had 
been, but it was long enough. " Lee," said 
the sporting Press, " is not driving quite 
such a colossal distance as formerly, but he 
seems to be taking it easier and playing well 
within himself," and John was glad to leave 
them under the impression that he could hit 
another twenty yards if he wanted to. 

It was only on one or two occasions that 
he had resort to supernatural aid on the 
greens. The sight of the ball running 
into the hole, even though the credit for it 
was not his, had given him confidence, and 
he was really putting better than ever he had 
done, so that his supporters were jubilant as 
to his prospects. 

In a match against his chief rival, Gardner, 
however, he had yielded to temptation, and 
in obedience to his wish a fifteen-yard putt 
had been holed on the last green to win the 

He paid dearly for it afterwards by a 
sleepless and remorseful night. He had not 
deserved to win the match, and now he had 
got the money that ought to have been 
Gardner's. What was he to do with it ? 
He supposed he ought to give it to a 
hospital or something as a penance. 

.Digitized by Google 

At any rate, he never, never would hole a 
putt in that way again. With a great oath 
he got up, took up his little pocket-book, 
tore it to shreds, and scattered the pieces to 
the four winds. Now, at any rate, he could 
not cheat again, for he did not know how 
many yards he could afford to take. It was 
a great thing to have that weapon against 
temptation — not that he ever meant to be 
tempted again, but still, in case. 

The Championship was to take place at 
Seamouth, the course whereon John had 
been born and bred, and many were the 
hopes that with his foot upon his native heath 
he would at last justify the never-flagging 
confidence of his partisans. 

He himself felt very fit and hopeful. True, 
he was not driving quite so far, but he was 
hitting every ball as clean as a whistle, and 
in spite of his good resolutions he was putt- 
ing for once in his life really well, so that 
his supporters stood amazed at the confidence 
and precision of his holing-out. 

Out of all the big field he started the un- 
questioned favourite, and on the first day all 
went well for him. 

The driving was straight as an arrow and 
the putts went in nicely. The game seemed 
very easy, and under the admiring eyes of 
Mr. Postlethwaite, who followed him round 
with dog-like devotion, he holed out in 
seventy-six and seventy-five and led the field 
by two strokes. 

A bright June morning, calm and serene, 
dawned on the second day of the Champion- 
ship, and John, too, felt wonderfully serene 
and unruffled as his turn to start was drawing 
near. He teed his ball, drove a beauty 
straight down the middle, and was off on his 
third round, that most momentous of the 
four rounds of a Championship. 

He heard the tramp, tramp of the crowd 
surging along behind him and the shouting 
of the rosetted fore-caddies. " Back on the 
left there— room for the players, please," and 
there were the fishermen in their blue jerseys, 
who carry the ropes that keep unruly spectators 
within bounds. The crowd seemed of very 
little importance, however, and with perfect 
calm he played the difficult second shot over 
the big bunker and landed his ball close to 
the hole. It was his partner's turn to putt, 
and John was looking idly at the packed 
ranks of the spectators. There were several 
of his special supporters, but the greater part 
of the crowd he had never seen before. 
Suddenly, however, he caught a glimpse of a 
face that he could not mistake ; it was but a 
glimpse, but it was. enough. Was he likely 




to be mistaken about those steely, glittering 
eyes and the dark, wicked face ? The stranger 
half smiled at him — the smile that had sent 
a shiver down John's back at their memor- 
able interview. Then he disappeared among 
the crowd, and John stood staring, immovable 
and rigid, at the place where he had been. 

With an effort he came out of his trance, 
to find it his turn to play. The one glance 
of those flashing eyes had upset the placid, 
even state of his nerves. Suppose he should 
have one of his old breakdowns on the 
green — how ghastly it would be ! Was that 
what the ominous stranger had come to see ? 
He scuffled up his long putt somehow to 
within a yard of the hole, and then examined 
the line with the most anxious care. 

Try as he would, he could not concentrate 
his thoughts wholly and solely on the stroke. 
He could not wait for ever ; the ball must be 
hit, and he hit it ; it reached the lip of the 
hole, and then — oh, horror ! curled round it 
and sat obstinately upon the edge. 

The crowd gave a groan of anguish. Was 
the old, old tragedy to be repeated again ? 

It had seemed so impossible to miss those 
little putts ; and suddenly the whole world 
had grown dark and it seemed impossible to 
do anything but miss them. 

John struggled on manfully, though he 
seemed to hear all the whispered comments 
of the crowd on his putting. He peered 
amongst them ever and anon, but there was 
no glimpse to be had of his strange visitor — 
he had passed before him like a breath and 
was gone. 

The round went wearily on. Sometimes 
the putts fell half-heartedly into the hole, but 
for the most part they remained persistently 
outside. It was only the excellence of the 
rest of his game that made his score respect- 
able. He finished in eighty-one, but on so 
fine a day the scores were ruling low, and 
Gardner, who had been second on the first 
day, had done seventy-six. 

A lead of two turned into a deficit of 
three is never particularly pleasant, but at 
any rate there was lunch, and no doubt he 
would do better after that. 

The fates, however, seemed to will it other- 
wise. " My old grandmother could kick 'em 
in better," groaned poor John, "and Vr 
turned eighty-seven " ; and no doubt with this 
venerable ally to help him on the green he 
would have done considerably better. As 
it was he took forty for the outgoing half, 
which was by far the shorter of the two. 

Things were really getting desperate, and 
his crowd were beginning to drop away in 

Digitized by LjOOgle 

mingled sorrow and disgust. It was too 
much to disgrace himself thus before his own 
people. And as this thought was passing 
through his mind he saw among the crowd 
for an instant that dark, cruel face smiling at 

This time the smile did not unnerve him ; 
it braced him to a desperate venture. He 
had some yards of his drive still to spare ; 
exactly how much he did not know and 
hardly cared. " I wish to hole it ! " he 
muttered to himself between his clenched 
teeth, and the next minute the onlookers 
burst into a delighted cheer as a ten-yard 
putt went down for a three. 

The welcome sound of the clapping sang in 
his brain like wine. He would win that 
Championship and let the rest go hang. 

News came that Gardner had played 
an excellent round of seventy-seven, so 
that John had a seventy-three to win. That 
meant a thirty-three for the long nine holes 
home, a feat beyond human power — unless 
a few long putts were holed. Yet at the 
eleventh his conscience pricked him so 
severely that he tried a five-feet putt unaided. 
Result, another miss and a long-drawn 
groan from the crowd. 

Then his good resolutions were finally 
thrown to the winds, and on the next three 
greens the putts went flying in, and the crowd 
cheered itself hoarse with delight. There 
was still a chance of a Seamouth man winning 
the Championship. 

John was feeling far from comfortable, 
however, for he saw his drives getting per- 
ceptibly shorter. Straight and clean, however, 
they still were, and they got over the bunkers. 

But two holes left to play now, and two 
fours wanted to win. Easy enough fours for 
a long driver, but at the seventeenth there 
was a longish carry from the tee. He might 
go round it, but surely he still had sufficient 
length to get over. He hit the ball clean — 
it seemed to soar away, then ducked in its 
flight and fell, not over, but in. 

John hacked it out savagely, amid a deep 
and sympathetic silence. A good iron shot 
put him on the green, about ten yards from 
the hole. He must hole it ; and yet, could 
he afford it ? Had he as much as six inches 
left? That last drive had been terribly short. 

" How long a carry is it over that bunker, 
could you tell me ? " he asked his marker, 

" I don't exactly know," said the marker, 
a little astonished. " This must be a cool 
chap to ask such a question, when he's got 
to hole a putt to win a Championship," he 

j 1 1 1 ■_' 1 1 1 



thought ; and then he said, " I'm not quite 
sure, but I think it's a hundred and eighty 
yards. Yes, I am almost sure of it" 

If that was so, all was well ; anyhow, 
there was no help for it. He must risk it, 
and once more he wished that the ball 
might go in* The crowd nearly went mad 
this time; they cheered and cheered, but 
it was not to them that John listened, 
Clear above the cheers he had heard a 
single peal of devilish laughter. 

And yet it must surely be all right. He 
had several yards left. He teed his ball and 
took more care than usual over his shot. 
He was conscious of timing it beautifully, 
and away went his arms in his characteristic 
follow through, but — the ball was still on the 
tee. If only^he had not believed that wretched 
marker ! He had drawn once too often upon 
his supernatural debtor and the draft had not 
been honoured— his driving was gone for 
ever, and all hope was gone with it, 

No, not all ; the iron clubs had played 
no part in that nefarious bargain* There 
was still his cleek, and seizing it he hit a 
tremendous shot. If only he had taken it at 
first ! He had only a little chip to play over 
the bunker and might yet put it dead. 

The crowd had been struck dumb by the 
extraordinary events on the lee, but now 
their tongues were loosened and not even 
the importance of the occasion could quiet 
them. But John was past heeding them ; he 
took plenty of time and played the stroke to 
perfection. The ball rolled on and on till it 
lay within four or five feet of the hole. 

Only that little putt to win now, but he 
had to do it all unaided. At least he would 


hit it hard enough, and he did. The ball 
struck the back of the tin, leaped up in the 
air, and fell, not in, but on the far side of the 
hole, where it hung quivering on the last 
blade of grass, 

John stood gazing at it like a thing of 
stone. He was roused by the sympathetic 
voice of the marker: "You must put it in 
place, Lee, You have that to tie, you know." 

That to tie for the Championship ! The 
irony of the situation suddenly struck him as 
funny, and he gave a mirthless laugh. 

What was the use of a tie to him ? 

Could he go out and play it off before all 
those people with his iron clubs ? He would 
be a laughing-stock. No, his golfing days 
were over, once and for all. At least he had 
that cursed thousand pounds to live on — the 
price of the ^l^rious driving that had been 
his pride and joy* 

Very deliberately he walked up to his ball 
and kicked it far away. 

He had paid too great a price even for a 
Cham piorcshiflnal from 



Author of ll Lawless of Presidio" eft* 

1 1 E wedding - parly, gay with 
village bridal finery and bright 
with flowers and ribbons, 
stopped half-way down the 
flagged path from the meeting- 
house, and crowded together 
with a flutter of consternation. The bride's 
handsome face — handsome, though some- 
what hard and high -coloured, as the face 
of the New EL ng land woman is apt to 
grow when once first youth is past— turned 
violently crimson and then whitc\ a change 
repeated in a lesser dugree in the stolid, 
middle - aged countenance of the bride^ 

groom, at whose stout arm her white-gloved 
hand involuntarily clutched. Both stared 
blankly at young Hungerford by the gate, as 
erect and motionless in his saddle as a statue. 
He had perhaps gone a little pale and 
strained under his clear tan ; his eyes, as he 
looked back, were both hard and humorous. 
A knot of Basset folk, gathered to see the 
wedding, waited, tense, for developments. 
At the rear of the group in the path a girl 
burst into an hysterical giggling titter* The 
brides mother, small and nervously shrewish, 
elbowed her way to the front, standing before 
her daughter. 


Vol, xxarvL-aO. 




"You don't. want to say anything, Dave 
Hungerford," she began, shrilly. "It won't 
do a mite of good if you do. An' — an* it's 
too late, anyway." , 

"Seems so," agreed Itungerford, com- 
posedly. He did not stir. 

"I (Jon't say but that you should have 
been let know. I said to Cynthy that she 
had ought to write and break off, but she — 
sort of felt she couldn't. And when your 
letter came saying you'd come to fetch her 
the wedding was all fixed up." She paused, 
" And I say you don't ought to blame her. 
A girl can't go on waitin' an' waitin' — ever- 
lastin' waitin' ! She's been doing it now 
almost as much as seven years." 

" Seems to me so have I," said Hunger- 
ford, gently as before. 

" It did look as if you never were going to 
have things fixed so as you could get married. 
An' — an' Mr. Mansell, he offered to her, and 
he's plenty — what'll make her a sight more 
comfortable than ever you would, anyway." 

" Guess he's had more time to get it — he's 
older," suggested Hungerford. He glanced 
at the stout bridegroom's florid, perturbed 
face. " Considerable," he added, dryly. 

He inspected the rotund, flurried figure 
from head to foot again, and laughed. 

" Seems to me," he drawled, deliberately, 
"that he isn't hardly what you could call 
real handsome now. I don't want to say any- 
thing except that if she'd wanted to break 
off any time these seven years she wouldn't 
have needed to do more than mention it 
Good afternoon, Mrs. Mansell ! " 

He lifted his hat — the sun was bright upon 
his cropped dark head, his handsome face, 
and the satiric laughter that danced in his 
dark eyes ; his bow, addressed to the bride, 
swept round and included all there. Then 
he turned his sorrel mare's head, riding off at 
a gallop. 

He was hot with rage, for all that he had 
carried it off so coolly ; in a fury of scorn, 
wonder, bewilderment, which kept him at top 
speed until Basset and its babble were far 
behind. But stronger than any other sensa- 
tion, and overriding all, was one of con- 
temptuous amusement When presently he 
brought the heated mare to a walk his first 
impulse was to laugh. 

" Sort of seems as if I didn't care much," 
he said aloud. 

The thought moved him to an honest 
astonishment and perplexity. Boyishly proud 
at its beginning of his engagement to the 
handsome girl who was three years his elder, 
he had realized as little that the passing 

Digitized by L.iOOglC 

years had brought with them a diminishing 
ardour as the inexorable fact of the fading 
of her freshness and bloom. 

His own homestead lay some distance 
beyond Palmersville, the flourishing town- 
ship twenty miles away, where he had 
first known Cynthia. The white, winding 
road, baking dustily in the afternoon sun- 
glare, was clearly not his way. If he struck 

into the forest He drew rein with an 

ejaculation. Looking ahead as he cogitated, 
he had seen nothing of the basket until the 
sorrel's hoof struck against it and the major 
part of its contents were sent rolling. 

Hungerford was on his feet in a moment. 
The basket, a large one, had been hidden in 
a clump of fern beside the road. How had 
it come there ?. Asking himself the question 
as he picked it. up, tilting back two just- 
escaping parcels, he saw a girl asleep in the 
hollow of the thicket, as though she lay in 
a green nest. 

So sound asleep that she had heard neither 
the trot of hoofs, the overturning of her 
basket, nor his own exclamation. Her sun- 
bonnet lay in her lap ; her yellow hair, curl- 
ing round her temples, and falling in a thick 
rope down her shoulder, was like gold against 
the green ; one sunburnt hand nursed a pink 
cheek ; the dust of the road was white upon 
the faded, frayed hem of her poor calico frock 
and her little, worn, clumsy country shoes. 
Hungerford, staring at her, thought her a 
child. He made some movement, and found 
himself staring only at her wide-open, golden- 
brown eyes. 

" Oh ! " she cried, and scrambled to her 
feet — no child, as he saw at once, although 
she was slim and small and the frayed skirt 
did little more than reach her ankles. 

" It was my horse ; I didn't see. I'll pick 
them up for you," said Hungerford, hastily. 

Part of the basket's contents had been 
apples, which had rolled away as apples will, 
and took some minutes to collect Finally he 
brought it back packed as the unskilled fingers 
of men do pack. She received it dubiously. 

" I guess they won't stay so," she said, with 
doubt " I'd best see if I can't put them a 
little different, I think." 

She sat down on the knoll where she had 
been resting, and tipped all out on the grass 
at her side. Watching her for a moment — 
the next he dropped on his knee and handed 
parcel or apple as her glance or gesture 
indicated which. 

"That's pretty heavy, I should think," 
Hungerford said, handing the last apple. 

" ^ es Otf'il!i ifi^t heavy. I wouldn't have 




sat down, but I was 
so tired, and I 
didn't mean to go 
to sleep. But it's 
quite a way from 
Basset " 

"You haven't 
carried all that 
from Basset?" 

M Yes, I have." 

"Why, it's as 
much as you ought 
to do to lift it ! " 
He raised the 
basket and set it 
down again, frown- 
ing. tf Guess your 
folks ought to know 
better than to let 
you/' he said, 
bluntly. " They'd 
best send someone 
else next time — not 
a little slip of a 
thing like you," 

"There isn't any 
one else, and if 
there was— — JI She 
checked herself 
with a half laugh. 
"Guess I'm used 
to it," she finished, 

" This must be 
all of three miles 
from Basset. If 
youVe got to carry 

it much farther 

Say, you've got 
hurt, haven't you? yy 

He broke off, 
As she raised her 
arms to twist up her hair her loose sleeves 
had fallen back to the elbows, and across 
one a great livid bruise had turned the fair 
skin purple She shook the sleeve down, 
her pink cheeks deepening to scarlet. 

" It— it isn't anything ! I— I did it myself/' 
she declared, quickly. 

" Why, of course you did!" Hungerford 
laughed gently. " I didn't reckon that any- 
body had been such a brute as to do it to 
you. If I did I'd ask who he was, so as I 
could lay him out. Guess I'd enjoy it con- 
siderable more than he would ! I was going 
to ask if you've got much farther to go with 
that basket ? " 

"Not so very. It's a good piece along 
the track that way." She nodded towards 


the forest behind them. " On the road to the 

"The Bend ? I'm going that way. I was 
calculating when I saw you that I'd strike 
through and stay the night there,' 1 

u I guess you'll mean Bascombe's, 
not " She stopped. 

" Bascombe's, yes. I reckoned it would 
be all on the way to the Palmersville road, 
and n 

* 4 Yes, but it's a pretty long way/' 

"So, if that's your way too, I'll be able to 
help you along. Do you reckon you can make 
out to sit in my saddle if I lead the mare ?" 

" I'd laugh if I couldn't. I can ride bare- 
back when I want to, It's real good of you, 
Mr. " Her e-yeii questioned, 




" My name's Dave Hungerford. Maybe 
you'll tell me yours ? " 

" It's Barbara— Barbara Kent." Her look 
swept him over as candidly as a child's. 
"Somehow, I guessed you'd be going to 

"Did you? Why?" 

" Oh ! " — she gave him another inspection 
— " well, you're real smart, aren't you ? " she 
said, plainly admiring him for it. 

"Smart?" Hungerford laughed, shortly. 
"Well, I suppose a man calculates to be 
smart when he goes on his wedding journey, 
doesn't he ? " 

" Wedding journey ? " she echoed. " What, 
to the Bend ? " 

" No— from Basset ! " He laughed again ; 
the next sentence was out half involuntarily. 
"You see, when I got there a while ago I 
found she was just getting married to some- 
body else." 

"Oh ! " she cried, quite aghast. And then, 
" I guess you don't mean it ? " she said. 

" I guess I do, though," returned Hunger- 
ford, briefly. " You ready ? " 

She nodded. Her light spring as he lifted 
her made her as weightless as a rising bird ; 
she seemed to settle into the saddle like one. 
He handed up the basket, placing it care- 
fully so that she could hold it with ease, and 
went to the sorrel's head — they entered the 
tremulous dappled shadow of the forest. 
Under the puckered sun bonnet and the waves 
of yellow hair Hungerford knew that the gold- 
brown eyes asked a torrent of eager questions. 
It was with a quite genuine laugh as he 
recalled it that he presently began to speak 
of the scene outside the Basset meeting- 
house, and the fright of Cynthia and her 
groom. Manlike, he did not at all realize 
how adroit were the little questions to which 
he had replied, and still less how very clear 
was the picture that he had given of Cynthia. 
She broke a long pause. 

" Seems to me you don't care much," she 
suggested. "You didn't fuss any. I was 
thinking it will be real horrid to have to go 
home and tell folks — won't it ? " 

"That's so." He was irritatedly con- 
scious that the question presented the case 
at a point which he had not yet reached — 
the idea stung. He laughed. " Maybe the 
best way to do will be to marry the first girl 
who'll have me, and stop them before they 
get a chance to start. Say, what's the 
matter? Guess you slipped, didn't you?" 

Some sudden movement in her had made 
the sorrel start and swerve ; the top packet 
in the basket shifted and fell. He picked 

Digitized by tjOOg 

it up, turning to replace it ; the mare was 
standing still. 

" Guess you slipped, didn't you ? " he 

" No." She looked straight ahead ; with 
wonder he saw her scarlet, from yellow hair 
to slender throat. " Maybe that would be 
the best way," she said, deliberately, and 
stopped. Then — " Is she prettier than I 
am ? " she demanded. 

She had looked round ; amazed, he stared 
into her bright, defiantly wide eyes. She 
laughed and shook back the sunbonnet. 

" Is she prettier than I am ? " she repeated, 
and laughed again bitterly. " Oh, I allow 
I've been told that I'm pretty times enough : 
I wish I hadn't, but I have ! Is she prettier, 
that girl you were going to marry ? Guess 
she can't be, when she's older than you. 
That's real old for a girl But maybe you 
think she's prettier." 

"Prettier?" He looked into the little 
vivid face, perhaps for the first time realizing 
it lovely, and recalled the picture of Cynthia 
in the meeting-house path — Cynthia violently 
flushed, half scared and half aggressive, stolid 
and angular in her stiff, ungraceful, unfamiliar 
bridal gear. If this girl were robed in that 

white frock and filmy veil " No," he 

said, honestly, " I reckon she wasn't ever 
half as pretty as you." 

" Ah ! " She kept her eyes on his. " I'll 
marry you if you like," she said, amazingly. 

" Eh ? " Hungerford ejaculated. 

" I'll marry you if you like," she repeated, 
and burst into a reckless hysterical laugh. 
" Guess you said you had best take the first 
girl who would have you. You won't need 
to mind what folks say if you've got one 
prettier than the one that gave you the mitten, 
will you ? Or to worry about my working too 
hard either — I haven't ever done anything 
else. And I can't treat you meaner than she 
has, anyway ! " 

" No," Hungerford assented. He was 
paler under his sun-bronze than he had been 
at the meeting-house gate as he looked at 
her. With a sudden movement he took hold 
of her wrist, pushed back the sleeve, and 
showed the cruel purple bruise. " Did you 
do that ? " he asked. 

"No." Her teeth shut upon the word; 
her throat swelled. 

" Who did do it ? Your father ? " 

" I haven't any father, or any folks except 
my cousin Nancy. I've lived with her and 
her husband, Chris Mason, since I was little. 
There isn't anyone else." 

" He cftjijgtj^lason ? On purpose ? " 




" I reckon Chris don't mind what he does 
when he gets mad." 

" The brute beat you ? A little soft thing 
like you?" 

"Yes." She looked away. "Guess he's 
done it pretty often. And hurt me worse 
than that" 

" We'll be married just as soon as I can 
fix it," said Hungerford, quietly. 

She made a movement which set the mare 
in motion, and he walked on as before, with 
his hand on the rein. Glancing at the girl 
presently, he saw that she was as white as 
she had been pink, and that her mouth w r as 
set hard. The weight of the silence grew 
impossible ; he broke it. 

44 What is Mason ? " he asked, and added, 
with a tone of apology, 4t I guess you may as 
well tell me, perhaps." 

44 He doesn't do much of anything. He 
farms some." She stopped. 44 And he keeps 
a sort of saloon." 

44 I'd never heard of any place near the 
Bend but Bascombe's. I guess I'll stay the 
night over now, though." 

44 No ! You had best go on." 

Her suddenly sharp tone had a new note. 
Hungerford met the flash of her eyes as she 
turned her head. 

44 Why ? " he asked, easily. 

44 Because you had. Chris isn't — your 
kind. You'd best go on to the Bend the way 
you meant to. I — I'd rather you would." 

44 Very well, I'll do as you say. I can 
come back to-morrow as easy as not. I'll 
stop and speak to Mason, though, if he's 

44 Why?" 

44 Why ? To tell him that if he lays as 
much as a finger on you again I calculate to 
thrash him till he don't know himself ! . . . 
Do we follow this track ? " 

44 Yes. It comes out on the road a little 
piece away." 

Nothing more had been said when they 
came out upon the road — unmade, rugged 
with the ruts of wheels and hoofs, thick 
with the powdery white dust. Hungerford, 
looking at the ramshackle, clapboarded build- 
ing which stood in the rough clearing upon 
the forest's edge, saw a place as desolate, poor, 
unkempt, and dreary as he had expected. 
Outside the broken gate Barbara slipped 
down from the saddle. 

44 You had best go on," she said. 44 You'll 
soon be at the Bend. Thank you ; good 

Her voice had a curious harsh dryness ; 
her face was whiter than it had been yet. 

Hungerford stared, keeping the basket she 
would have taken. 

44 1 guess I'll come in," he said. 

44 No ; I don't want you to. I want you 
to go." 

44 If you're going to marry me, I've got to 
see your folks," said Hungerford, quietly. 

She stood aside without further protest, 
and he brought the sorrel within and fastened 
her to a hitching-post. Then, as he took up 
the basket, she turned and silently led the 
way into the house. The room she entered 
—behind the bar, which was empty — was 
comfortless and bare enough, with roughly- 
coloured walls and boarded floor. 

44 Is anyone around ? " asked Hungerford. 

She did not answer. Her fingers were 
busy with the strings of her sunbonnet ; her 
face was turned away ; some movement of 
her shoulders suggested a strangled sob. 
With a sudden impulse of tenderness he 
put his arm round her. 

44 It's all right, dear," he said, gently. 
44 You don't need to feel this way. I — well, 
I reckon I can tell well enough that your 
folks aren't the kind that ought to belong to 
you. Mason isn't, anyway, the brute ! Come, 
I guess it's all right, isn't it ? Don't cry. . . . 
I'm sorry ! I won't — till afterwards — if you'd 
rather I didn't." 

He would have kissed her, much as he 
might have kissed a child, she seemed so 
young and helpless, so tender and small, but 
it was with a woman's strength that she had 
thrust him back and started away. 

44 There isn't going to be any afterwards ! " 
she declared, harshly. 44 1 was— joking ! " 

She had flung away the sunbonnet ; her 
eyes blazed dark in her colourless face. 
Hungerford looked at her, bewildered. She 
burst into a reckless, mocking laugh. 

44 1 was joking," she repeated. 44 1 was 
only — just seeing — what you'd say. Guess 
you must be real silly to think I meant it ! I 
didn't, anyhow." 

44 Joking?" Hungerford echoed, incredu- 
lously. He came a step forward. "That 
bruise on your arm isn't a joke, anyway," he 
said, quietly. " If you mean that you'd sooner 
stay here and let that brute beat you " 

44 Why not ? I guess I can stand a whip- 
ping — I've had plenty. Anyhow, I'm not 
going to marry you — I won't — I won't ! 
You'd best go right away quick as you can — 
I don't want ever to see you again ! " 

44 You mean it ? " 

44 'Course I do! Your horse is waiting — 
you'll be at the Bend in an hour. If you 
keep to the road you can't miss the way." 




She ran to a second door. But a change 
in her face as she reached it made Hunger- 
ford swing round. A man had entered from 
the bar, his lean, wiry figure blocking up the 
doorway — Chris Mason, of course, he thought 
rapidly, before the other's first words pro- 
claimed as much. For an instant his sharp, 
dark eyes went from one face to the other 
with a scowling scrutiny ; then he came 

" How do, boss ? " he said, with a nod. 
" I don't know your name, but I guess if you 
know Mason's you know mine. What say 
about the Bend ? If what you're wanting is 
good liquor and supper and to stay the night 
over, I calculate you're best where you are. 
Reckon we can fix you to rights as well as 
Bascombe's, anyway." 

He spoke with a noisy joviality. Barbara 
came forward quickly between the two. 

" He's going," she said. " He's got to go. 
He helped me bring the basket along half- 
way from Basset, else he wouldn't be here." 
She looked at Hungerford. "You're riding 
to the Bend to stay over at Bascombe's — you 
said you were. There isn't anything to stop 
here for — you'd best start now." 

"Hang Bascombe's! " cried Mason. " Your 
tongue's mighty slick all at once, seems to 
me ! " He turned to the other. " Guess if 
you're wise you'll stay where you are, boss. 
There ain't an uglier piece of road in the 
State than that from here to the Bend ; it'll be 
dark as pitch in a little, and there isn't a 
moon. Sit down while I go and 'tend to 
your horse. And, Barbie, you hush up, and 
tell Nance to look right smart with supper, 
d'ye hear ? Be spry, now ! " 

His hand upon the girl's shoulder only 
pushed her towards the door, and with no 
special roughness, but the glance that went 
with the gesture decided Hungerford, remem- 
bering as he did the livid bruise upon the slight 
arm ; the man was a savage and merciless 
brute in every line. 

41 Maybe you're right," he said. " I don't 
know the road between this and the Bend, 
but if it's the kind you say " 

" 'Tisn't ; it's good ! " declared Barbara, 

48 Then I reckon I'm best here till morn- 
ing. I'll stay the night over, anyhow." 

" That's your sort ! " said Mason, briskly. 
" Sit down and make you'self at home, boss, 
and I'll go 'tend to the mare. And you go 
right along and call Nance to get supper — 
d'ye hear me ? Nancy ! Here, Nance ! " 

He pushed the girl out, his face black as 
he turned it upon her, then hurried out 

through the bar. Hungerford sat down. In 
a moment or two the door opened again and 
Barbara entered, carrying a tray with a load 
of knives and forks and plates. She set it 
down, not looking at him, cleared the table 
of various objects that littered it, and began 
to spread a coarse soiled cloth. He rose to 
help her, and she suddenly turned upon him. 

"You said you'd go," she said, bitterly. 
" I allowed you were the sort to keep your 

" If you've changed your mind I reckon I 
may change mine," Hungerford returned, 
composedly. " What's there against my stay- 
ing, anyhow ? " 

11 It don't matter what there is — maybe 
nothing — but you'd be best at the Bend." 
She hesitated. " See here — after supper, if 
Chris asks you to Here's Nancycoming!" 

She broke off as Mrs. Mason entered, a 
tall woman, pale, meagre, and eager, her drab 
hair wound into a tight knot at the back of 
her head, the torn sleeves of her calico 
gown turned back from her lean red wrists. 
Judging by the appearance of his wife, Chris 
Mason made the sort of husband he looked 
like, Hungerford thought, wondering, as he 
received her scant nod and " How do ! " of 
greeting, whether this limp, dejected creature 
could also show her bruises. The table was 
half cleared, and Mason was in the bar, 
attending to the wants of a couple of passing 
teamsters, when, at the sound of a new voice, 
breaking loudly in upon the nasal hum of 
talk, his wife paused in her languid removal 
of the dishes. 

" Who's that come in ? " she said, in her 
spiritless drawl. " Seems to me it's Jake 
Peters; ain't it, Barbie?" 

Her husband shouted her name ; she 
hurried out. Hungerford turned to the girl. 

u Who's Jake Peters ?" he asked, easily. 

" Guess he's — a sort of partner of Chris's. 
They're in most things together,"she answered, 

" Oh ! " He looked at her. " You don't 
like him ? " he said, quietly. 

" I hate him ! " She set her teeth. " Guess 
I hate him worse than Chris." 

" Is that so ? " He paused. " What was 
that you were saying to me not to do after 



" Not to play cards. They'll want to — 
they always do ; you'll see. You'd best not 
— unless you think you play as well as they 
do — if you don't want to lose." 

" I guess they won't make me lose more 
than I've a mind to, anyhow," said Hunger- 
ford. "Thwi#rRritf.rbr 



He had barely time to say it, for Mason, 
coming in, brought another man with him, 
a man younger, broader, taller, with a hand- 
somely animal face and a jauntily swaggering 
manner. Watching the look of coarsely-bold 
admiration which he gave the girl with his 
loudly-effusive greeting, Hungerford under- 
stood that setting of her teeth. He assented 
mechanically when presently Mason pro- 
posed cards In the act of sitting down, 
when all was ready, Mason suddenly stopped 
with a laugh, drew a revolver from his hip- 
pocket, and threw it on to a side table by the 
inner door. 

" Reckon I'll set a good example, Jake, 
an' trouble you to follow it. Guess you're a 
sight too handy pulling your gun if the luck's 
ugly — a durn sight. I don't forget your 
drawing on me that time over in Green 
Springs. I calculate that if I hadn't kept 
cool and my hands on the table you'd have 
provided a funeral right smart." He took the 
revolver the other held out, tossed it on to 
the table with his own, and looked at 
Hungerford. " Jake's all right, boss, but 
his temper's sort of uncertain now and then. 
If you carry a shooter maybe you'll do as we 
do to make all pleasant. Thank'ee. Here, 
Nance— take a hold of this." 

He held up over his shoulder as he sat 
down the revolver that Hungerford had 
handed him, and his wife, rising from the 
table, where she and Barbara were now 
seated with some needlework, obediently 
took it from him. Hungerford, turning his 
head — he was seated with his back that way 
— saw that she laid it carefully down beside 
the others as she went out at the door. 
Glancing then, as Mason dealt the cards, 
across at the girl, he wondered whether it 
was the sickly yellow flare of the kerosene 
lamps that made her face look even whiter 
than it had done in the shadow of the forest. 
When next he looked that way she was gone. 

The game went on. Whatever the skill 
of his two fellow-players might be, the luck, 
for a couple of hours or so, favoured Hunger- 
ford fairly enough. Then, changing, it kept 
against him steadily ; he lost, and continued 
to lose. He took a bill from his pocket- 
book presently, as Peters, with a laugh, 
swept the last won stakes across to himself 

" I'd best say that I don't calculate to lose 
any more after this five dollars," he said. 
" That's my limit, and I don't go beyond it. 
So when it's gone, as I reckon it's pretty sure 
to do the way the luck seems now, I guess 
I'll say good night." 

"Just as you say, boss. Guess Jake's 

doing pretty much what he likes with us 
both," Mason answered. He half swung 
round. " What's the girl doing ? She 
asleep ? " 

Barbara had come back five minutes ago, 
so noiselessly that Hungerford, glancing that 
way, had started to see her in her old place. 
Now her head lay forward on her arms on 
the table, as though she slept ; her yellow 
hair shone in the lamplight. Mason looked 
towards the half-open door leading to the bar. 
He rose, yawning. 

" It's getting pretty late ; we won't have any 
more folks in to-night— guess I'll lock up. 
You don't get on over spry with your liquor, 
boss — don't care for the brand, maybe ? I've 
got some prime rye I'd like you to sample — 
you won't match it in this State or the next, 
I don't reckon. It'll maybe change yer luck 
before we start the last game. I'll fetch ye a 
dram when I've fixed things out here." 

He went out ; in a moment there was a 
sound of shutting door and rasping bolts. 
Peters flung himself sprawling back in his 
chair, closing his eyes. Hungerford, making 
a movement to rise, stopped dead — over the 
man's broad, unconscious shoulder Barbara 
was looking at him. 

Her sleep had been a feint. He saw it in 
the wide warning of her eyes, in the hand 
touching her lips, in the swift gesture that 
sent him silently back into his seat. Some 
milk spilt upon the bare boards of the deal 
table by which she sat had been untidily 
left there — she dipped her finger in the 
puddle and turned to the red-ochred wall. 
" Don't," she wrote upon it, in great, rapid, 
uncertain capitals, smeared it out, glanced 
at him again, wetted her finger again, and 
traced another " d." Before she could shape 
the next letter Mason's voice shouted from 
the bar. 

" You, Barbie, here ! " he called, roughly. 
" Wake the girl, Jake — send her along — d'ye 

Peters rose, but she darted away before he 
could approach her — Hungerford caught the 
look she flung over her shoulder as she 
went — " Oh, don't you understand ? " — the 
little wild white face seemed to cry the 
question to him. From the bar Mason spoke 
a word of harsh command, bidding her go to 
bed ; the slam of a door told that he had 
shut it upon her. Then came a sound of 
stumbling and a smash of glass ; he swore, 
and called to Peters ; Hungerford was alone 
before the letter of her uncompleted warning 
had dried from the reddened wall. 

Without doubl; k was a warning, and a 




genuine one — her face had told that — but 
what did it mean ? Don't what ? She had 
urged him strenuously, almost fiercely, to go 
on to the Bend. Why ? Was Mason some- 
thing more than the woman-bullying brute 
he showed himself, and Peters perhaps no 
better ? She had said they were a sort of 
partners. Wondering, it was not pleasant 
to recollect that he carried more than five 
hundred dollars in bills, intended for an 
investment in Basset, or to recall that at 
supper, in reply to something said by Mason, 
he had carelessly spoken of having more upon 
him than he would care to lose. Anyhow, it 
would be well to pocket his revolver — they 
would be two to one. He rose, turning 
towards the table by the door, and saw that 
it was gone ! 

The shock was an ugly one ; for a moment 
he stood staring. The revolver was certainly 
gone. And no less certain than that he had 
seen it laid beside the others was the fact that 
neither Mason nor Peters had since been near 
that part of the room. Who had removed it ? 
Barbara ? His involuntary movement forward 
stopped as he asked himself the question; 
he sank noiselessly back into his seat, seeing 
the handle of the closed door movei It was 
pushed open slowly, slowly, inch by inch — 
inch by inch a hand stole through the aperture. 
There was no mistaking the blunted, soddened 
red fingers — the hand was Mrs. Mason's ; he 
could see her lean, corded wrist and soiled 
calico sleeve. Then, slowly as it had been 
advanced it was withdrawn, and his revolver 
was lying upon the table. 

His impulse to start up he had the wit to 
check. Mason and Peters appeared from the 
bar together. They were between him and 
the weapons ; they were two to one — he 
sat where he was. Mason put down the 
small demijohn he carried, took his glass, 
tossing the dregs it contained through the 
adjacent open window, poured out a stiff 
dram of the spirit, added water, and handed 
it to him. 

" Reckon you won't match that liquor in a 
hurry, boss," he said, jovially. " Why, there 
ain't a headache in a hogshead of it. But I 
don't calculate to pull the cork out for every- 
body — no, sir. Guess it ain't your pizen 
to-night, Jake ; there's mighty little left. 
Maybe you'll tote it back to where it came 

He pushed the vessel over to the other, 
strode to the door and flung it open, shouting 
some rough direction to his wife ; Hun- 
gerford raised the glass. His sense of 
smell was unusually keen — something in 

the savour of it, something strange and 
sinister, assailed his nostrils; in a flash 
he understood Barbara's warning ■ — " Don't 
drink," she would have written — the stuff was 
drugged ! He glanced round. Peters had 
vanished into the bar, Mason's back was 
turned; the window was close; with one 
swift movement forward and a dexterous 
twist of his wrist he jerked the liquor out. 
All his wits were about him. Peters enter- 
ing, Mason turning round saw the glass at 
his lips and that he put it down empty. 

It was good stuff that, he said, with a yawn. 
But he guessed he wouldn't play any more 
to-night ; he was dead sleepy, somehow, and 
must be off bright and early in the morning 
— he would go to bed. He yawned again as 
Mason, acquiescing, lighted a candle, and 
staggered drowsily as he followed him to the 
door. In a minute or two he was shut into 
the room prepared for him, and listening to 
the man's footsteps as he withdrew. 

His revolver had been handed to him as 
he passed the table ; he examined it — every 
chamber empty ! He glanced about the 
room. There was nothing in its poor furni- 
ture either heavy enough to block the door 
or formidable enough to serve as a weapon, 
and its only window was a skylight in the 
floor of the loft above, to which the ladder in 
the centre of course led the way — he might 
have done better to make a fight for it down 
below ; the place was a trap ! He had moved 
to the ladder — cautiously, for they might be 
listening — when he started to hear a whisper 
over his head, and looked up to see 
Barbara's face peering down. 

" Quick ! " she whispered, and put some- 
thing into his hand ; he felt what it was — a 
cartridge. " Nancy dropped it — she didn't 
know I was watching. Guess it's better than 
nothing if you have to shoot — they'll maybe 
think you've got more." She watched him 
slip it into place— the loft had a long, low 
window, and the pale night light streamed in 
— they could just see each other's faces in 
the gloom. " You didn't drink ?" she asked, 
rapidly ; " you guessed what I meant when I 
wrote on the wall ? " 

"No, I didn't drink. I smelt the stuff 
and guessed what you meant then ; I hadn't 
before. I threw it away ; they think I drank 
it," Hungerford answered as rapidly. 

" I reckon they won't be in too much 
of a hurry if they think you've drunk the 
stuff; they'll wait for you to get to sleep. 
Your horse is ready saddled — I went out and 
did it — and they won't think about me — 
they reckon Pvs gone to bed. You ought 




to be a good piece away before they come, 
if we don't make any noise/ 1 She drew him 
to the window. "There's a big tree outside, 
and a limb 'most touches the wall— it's a real 
easy climb down, I've done it before when 
Chrishas shut me 
up, and so can 
you. I'll come 
after you and 
show you where 
your horse is — 
quick ! " 

She opened 
the window, 
H u n ger ford 
climbed out upon 
the great branch, 
made his way 
along it, and slid 
cautiously down. 
She followed, 
dropping lightly 
into his arms, and 
they stood for a 
moment with 
breath held, 
listening. The 
mumble of 
Mason's voice 
came from the 
open window 
round an angle 
of the wall, but 
no other sound 
was audible as 
they stole noise- 
lessly across the 
yard to where the sum -1 
waited behind an out- 

I( There isn't a gate 
this side," whispered 
Barbara; "we'll have to 
cross the yard- You'd 
best have your gun 
ready, for fear they 

Hunger ford nodded. They 
were half-way to the gate when 
from some corner the dog sprang 
up with a volley of barks, and 
in a moment a door was rlung 
open and Mason appeared. He 
saw the two — they were full 
in the light— and sprang forward with an 
oath. Hungerford flung the girl behind 
him, letting the revolver fall — its report, he 
remembered in a' flash, would bring the 
second scoundrel to the aid of the first — and 

Vol* xxx vi. - 21, 

met the furious rush with a swinging upper- 
cut that clicked the man's jaws together and 
lifted him from his feet ; he fell crashing 
down, A shout came from the house and 
Peters ran out Hungerford caught the glint 

of his pistol-barrel 
as his arm was 
lifted, heard the 
crack of a report 
at his shoulder, 
and saw him 
stumble forward 
and pitch head- 
long with a bullet 
through his thigh. 
He turned, and 
Barbara thrust his 
smoking revolver 
into his hand. 

"Quick!" she 
gasped, breath- 
lessly, "Chris 
will come to in a 
little, and Peters 
will shoot in a 
minute if he can. 
Guess it won't do 
to let them know 
that you can't 
shoot any more, 
Quick \ " 

"You're com- 
ing too," said 

He caught her 
in his arms un- 
resisting, swung 
her to the sorrel's 
neck, and sprang 
up behind her* 
A shot and a 
volley of curses 
came after them 
as the mare 
dashed out of the 
gate and down 
the road into the 
forest. Hunger- 
ford slackened 
the pace presently 
and Barbara 

" You wanted 
to go to Palmers- 
ville," she said. " We'd best strike through 
to Piatt's Crossing — that's the nearest road 
from this side — the coach from Leadville 
goes through at six o'clock." 

Hun Sf?S:'JiT^.iffii;^ * mon " :n, 





dismounted and put her into the saddle, 
himself leading the marej the summer night, 
though moonless, was not dark, and the track 
was fairly clear. She broke a long silence. 

"I guess," she said, slowly, "that you 
know what they wanted — Peters and 
Chris ? " 

"The money I was carrying, of course." 
He hesitated. (1 I suppose it was because 
you guessed how it might be that you didn't 
want me to stay?" ;j by GoOgle 

" No ; I wanted you to go, but She 

broke off". (t I was only afraid, when you let 
on at supper that you were carrying consider- 
able, that they'd play cards and maybe cheat 
you. It was when Chris got away your shooter 
that I was scared. I saw him look at Peters ; I 
guessed they meant something ugly. I went 
near crazy when Chris said about getting 
you the drink, until I thought of writing 
that up on the wall." 

She laughed bitterly, "Guess it wouldn't 



have been the first time therms been some- 
thing like it happen ! " 

It was almost light when they reached 
the Crossing. A rough shed for the shelter 
of waiting passengers had been built beside 
the track, and a great felled trunk, all golden 
and green with moss, lay half buried in grass 
and fern. Hungerford lifted the girl down. 

" It's getting pretty late. We won't have 
so very long to wait for the coach," he said, 

" We ? " She drew back with a start, 
looking up at him. 

" You're coming," said Hungerford, quietly. 
" Guess if I let you go back I'd be as big a 
brute as Mason. I've got a married cousin 
in Palmersville — you shall stay with her for 
a while, anyway." He stopped. " I said 
I'd stay over List night because I allowed 

that, maybe, if you had time to think " 

He broke off again. " If you hadn't been 
joking in what you said things would have 
been easy enough ; I guess 1 wouldn't have 
wanted any help to look after you then. 
We'd have been married right away, and " 

" Married ? " She drew back farther, with 
dilating eyes. " You say that now, when you 
know — when my folks " 

"I'm not troubling about your folks. 
I reckon I wouldn't have wanted to have 
much truck with them or let you have any. 
If you hadn't been joking " 

" I wasn't joking," she said, doggedly. 

II What ? " He stared at her. 

II I wasn't joking," she repeated. " No, I 
wasn't. I meant I'd marry you — for a 
minute. Seemed as if I'd do 'most anything 

to have things different — to get quit of 

Oh, I guess you know ; you had ought to by 
this time." 

"I guess I ought," Hungerford assented. 
"Then why, afterwards, did you say you 

" Because I liked you ! " She set her 
eyes on his, defiant of the flaming blush that 
reddened her. " I knew I liked you, 'most 
as soon as I'd said it, and that I'd go on 
liking you more. I couldn't marry you — 
that way — when I liked you— how could I ? 
And when you didn't think anything of me ! " 
Her hands clenched. " I guess I'd have 
killed Peters — if he'd have hurt you ! " 

Her tone was fierce ; she bit a shaking 
lip. Hungerford moved a pace nearer. 

" I reckon you're coming with me, dear," 
he said, quietly. " If you like me jjt's about 
all that matters. Because" — he hesitated 

by K: 



and half laughed—'* well, I guess you won't 
need to worry about whether I think enough 
of you ! We'll be married in Palmersville 
soon as we get there, and maybe stay a day 
or two while you get fixed up with clothes. 
And then we'll go home." 

" Home ! " she echoed. Her breast rose 
high on a checked sob, but her eyes were 
still steady. " You don't ask," she said, with 
sharp breaks between the words, " whether 
I'm — good — whether I've always — kept 
good. You didn't before. And you— don't 
know !" 

" I reckon I don't ask questions I haven't 
any need to ask. Particularly when I 
shouldn't believe any but one sort of 
answer," Hungerford returned, with com- 

" I have ! " She moved a step nearer. " I 
have ! " she declared, almost fiercely. " I 
have — always ! Oh, seems to me I'd die — 
right now — this minute— if I hadn't ! " 

He caught the little hands with which she 
made the passionate gesture— a movement 
drew her into his arms ; he held her close 
and felt her clinging — young blood ran 
warm to young blood — he kissed answering 
lips. In a moment she laughed against 
him softly, the little cooing, liquid laugh 
that bubbles only from the throat of the 
supremely happy woman ; her fingers closed 
on his wrist. 

" Dave," she whispered, fervently, " i'll be 
a real good wife — the very best I know how. 
Oh, I will— honest, I will ! You'll see ! •" 

" I guess you don't need to say that, dear 
— of course you will," Hungerford answered, 
tenderly. He laughed, looking down at the 
little radiant face, and kissed her again. 
"Say, darling, we'll send Cynthia a real 
smart wedding present for giving me the 
shake ; shall we ? I guess I've had about 
the luckiest sort of a wedding journey, 
after all." 

The morning brightened over the forest 
until all its winged woodland life was vocal 
and astir ; the mare, forgotten, cropped the 
lush grass patiently. Seated upon the great 
moss-dappled trunk the two waited, the 
girl's yellow head resting against the man's 
shoulder as sleepily as a drowsy child's. 
Neither had moved and hardly spoken again 
when at last the great coach came swaying 
and creaking along the track, and with a 
floundering of hoofs in the white dust, and a 
flourish of the driver's whip, drew up beside 

Original from 


N the termination of my part- 
nership with the Kendals, 
W. S, Gilbert offered to build 
me a new theatre and lease it 
to me for a term of years, 
as I was so fortunate as to 
iave been offered the site on which the 
(Jar rick Theatre now stands. 

During the time which elapsed between 
the closing of the St. James's and the build- 
ing of the Garrick Theatre I spent a season 
in association with my old friend Arthur 
Chudleigh, on the opening of the new 
Court Theatre, I had secured the rights 
of a French farce by MM. A. Bisson and 
Mars, which had been produced with 
enormous success in Paris. It was entitled 
**Les Surprises du Divorce. 3t I obtained 
the English rights on the strong advice 
of my agent, who had been present at 
the repetition ginirak, He had wired me 
that the part was one eminently suited 
to myself, and on no account whatever 
ought I to lose the eption secured- In fact, 
so urgent did he deem it that he begged 
me to send him the money over in cash 
the next day, which I did. It was fortunate 
that I followed his advice, as the French 
author wished to withdraw his promise of 
the previous night, and was only kept to it 
by the presentation of the money in hard 
cash in fulfilment of the agreement. 

I awaited the arrival of my somewhat 
costly purchase with eager curiosity and 
anxiety, which was not allayed by my dis- 
covery on reading the MS, that I had 
become the possessor of a roaring faree 
and not a comedy, as I had anticipated. 
The chief character, said to be "eminently 
suited" to me, was obviously intended for 


an eccentric light comedian. I determined, 
however, to experiment on this part, although 
son ewhat out of my line, at the solicitation 
of Chudleigh, who, with Mrs, John Wood, 
was about to inaugurate a joint management 
of the new Court Theatre. 

Thus I found myself once more in my old 
neighbourhood, and had the gratification of 
finding that the play ("Mamma," as we 
christened it) was a remarkable success all 
round. It ran for one hundred nights to 
packed houses. 

April 24th, 1889, was a red letter day to 
me, as on that date I opened the Garrick 
Theatre with cordial expressions of good 
wishes on the part of the public and Tress, 
I then had the pleasure of producing Pinero s 
first great serious play, "The Profligate," which 
achieved an instantaneous and unqualified 
success. It was hailed by the critics as being 
a marked advance on his preceding dramatic 
and literary achievements. The excellent cast 
included Miss Kate Rorke and Miss Olga 
Nethersole, Lewis Waller and Forbes-Robert- 
soil, while I contented myself with the com- 
paratively small part of Lord Dangars. The 
sketch on the next page, by Pinero himself, 
depicting his idea of the make-up of that 
character, may interest my readers. Unfortu- 
nately, however, I found it impossible to 
realize the author's admirable intentions. 
His imagination was greater than my ability 
to transform the face which God had given 
me to one which, with its luxuriance of 
hirsute adornment, might have inspired or 
irritated even Frank Richardson* 

Apropos of " The Profligate," I may 
mention a curious fact which shows how 
unreliable and uncertain are the taste?, of 
the public. Pin arc's play was performed to 




crowded houses till the end of the London 
season, and in the autumn I started my pro- 
vincial tour at Manchester with the same 
piece and cast. Having at all times met 
with the warmest support from the Man- 
Chester public, I naturally expected in this 
most theatre-loving of all cities an endorse- 
ment of the London verdict, and looked 
forward with confidence 
to a great success. To 
my dismay, however, 
we opened at the 
Theatre Royal } Man- 
chester, to a house of 
forty pounds, which, 
strange to say, did not 
show any signs of in- 
creasing. On the 
Tuesday the manager 
of the theatre entreated 
nic to revive "Mamma," 
the play previously pro- 
duced at the Court. 
"The Profligate " com- 
pany very kindly con 
sen ted to rehearse in 
two days parts they 
had never seen played, 
and on the Thursday 
14 Mamma n was pre- 
sented to a two-hun- 
dred [sound house. This 
continued, and the 
extraordinary circum- 
stance was emphasized by the fact that the 
Manchester public had not hitherto seen 
either play. Then came the reverse. We 
- went io Liverpool the next week and played 
to the utmost capacity of the theatre with 
"The Profligate ! '! We did not require 
" Mamma" at all ! 

Following this came my production oF an 
adaptation of Sardou's il l^. Tosca," the 
success of which was marred by the first 
great influenza panic which swept over 
London at that time and spread through the 
ranks of my company, worst of all affecting 
Mrs. Bernard Beere, who had been giving a 
splendid impersonation of the title role. I 
took great pa ins with the mist en stfate, and 
to the kindness and generosity of Mr. Abbey, 
R.A., I was indebted for the designs of the 
beautiful Kmpire costumes* The expenses of 
the production and company were too heavy 
to allow as long a run as it deserved. 

About this time Mr. Sydney Grundy 

informed me that he had adapted and would 

like me to hear his revised version of a 

Jay produced in France thirty years before, 

LORD imv.ahk. 

,4m Original Sktieh bit A. W> I*ii\tro. 

entitled " Les Petits Oiseaux," by MM. 
Iabiche and Delacour, the rights of which 
had then expired, It was called u A Pair 
of Spectacles." He came and read the play 
to me and I was delighted, deciding to put 
it into rehearsal immediately to follow M La 
Tosca," Conducting, as I have always 
done, rehearsals from the stalls of the theatre, 
I got the prompter to 
read my part of Ben 
jamin Goldfinch, with 
the result that, pre- 
judiced by the full- 
blooded performance 
of Sardou's drama, the 
apparent slightness of 
"A Pair of Spectacles" 
struck me as being only 
too real At last I 
despaired of its success, 
and almost succeeded 
in imbuing the 
author with my 
melancholy anticipa- 
tions. Indeed, I was 
on the point of en- 
deavouring to induce 
him to agree to a with 
drawal or postponement 
of the production when 
my wife, returning from 
a visit to Brighton, 
looked in to see a re- 
hearsal at my request, 
She expressed her entire and unalloyed 
delight with the play, and assured us that it 
was bound to be a very great success. 
Encouraged beyond expression, we continued 
rehearsals with a light heart, and produced 
" A Pair of Spectacles " for the first time on 
February 22nd, 1890. 

That the author himself recognised the 
value of my wife's encouragement and 
intuition is evident by the following letter : — 
47, SL Mary Abbott's Terrace, W., 

February 28th, 1890. 
Df:ar Mrs. H\re, — I have Lad no opportunity of 
expressing to you mv appreciation of your share in ihc 
brill jam triumph achieved by your husband, by which 
\ have so greatly benefited ■ but I am very conscious 
that your contribution to our success has extended far 
beyond the dresses. — Sincerely yours, 

Sydney Grundy. 

Ujc 9 






In spite of the splendid reception of the 
play on the first night I was still not sure of 
its success. After the performance was over, 
and while I was dressing, Mr, Herbert 
Waring was announced. "Well," I said, 
half in jest and half in earnest, "is it a 

rank as perhaps the greatest of Mr. Grundy's 
many brilliant achievements* 

It was during the run of "A Pair ot 
Spectacles" that Mr + Gladstone, accom- 
panied by Lord Rosebery, paid his first visit 
to my theatre, I saw him after the play, 

)ZZ<' K3C )C 

>Oe30Cr^CZDCZ3ZDO< - *ZZ< \>(^20 













Fratn t* ftruiritnf bit Prank JluiiUind. By i*rui\*w»n of the Frvpri'tw* a/ " '/A* Khmtrnttd JjrnJun &e\tt' T and '" TA* Sketch,' 

failure?' "A failure?" he repeated, em- 
phatically and almost indignantly. " It is 
the most charming piece I ever saw, and will 
draw all London/' 

This prophecy came true. "A Pair of 
Spectacles " ran for a year on its first pro- 
duction, and has remained a firm and 
faithful friend ever since, while it deserves to 

when he expressed his ^i\-.-a i.u.L'Libi with tin- 
performance, and at the same time displayed 
his keen critical judgment by detecting a 
flaw which had escaped all the more 
experienced theatrical critics, "I have only 
one fault to find," he said, ts with the con- 
struction o^nfftfl fP^'/i w h' t: h is, that the 

sh ^ ms ^Sfft e McteN the chance of 



reappearing at the end and rehabilitating 
himself like all the other characters." As a 
matter of fact, in the original the shoemaker 
did so, but, the play being a little too long, 
I persuaded Mr. Grundy to let me cut out 
his last entrance, thinking that nobody 
would notice his absence, although the 
author was not of my opinion. 

Another incident in connection with Mr. 
Gladstone occurred shortly afterwards, when 
we were dining at the house of a mutual 
friend. After asking his hostess the names 
of those he had not met before, he looked 
inquiringly in my direction. On learning 
my name and vocation, I was told after- 
wards that he had replied : " Oh, yes ! I 
know his father^ the manager of the Garrick 
Theatre!" He had only hitherto seen me 
in the guise of a comparative patriarch. 
Later in the evening he laughed heartily 
over his mistake, and conversed with his 
invariable charm and appreciatron of acting 
and actors of the past, especially Charles 
Kean and Macready, having been a great 
friend of the former, and I think they were 
at Eton together. 

I am aware that the preceding story has 
been told before, but I repeat it as it may 
be new to many of my readers, and know 
the great interest still attaching to the memory 
of Mr. Gladstone. 

He possessed that singular charm which 
belongs to a really great man of inspiring 
the highest respect without exciting the 
slightest fear or nervousness. He put all 
who came into contact with him at their ease, 
in spite of his dominating personality. At 
all times — and there were many occasions 
when I had the pleasure of meeting him — I 
found him simple-minded and sympathetic — 
in a word, a great gentleman. 

I shall never forget the impression left 
upon my mind when I had the privilege of 
listening to Mr. Gladstone's delivery of the 
great speech he made on introducing the 
first Home Rule Bill into the House of 
Commons in 1886. 

I was fortunate enough to obtain a seat 
in the Strangers' Gallery, and formed one of 
that vast audienc? who hung for four hours 
on the eloquent words which fell from Mr. 
Gladstone's lips. After the few questions 
of the day had been answered, the Prime 
Minister rose to perform his great task, and 
I can still vividly recall him as he stood 
before the Commons and the world. 

With his noble face and figure, his digni- 
fied bearing and flashing eyes, he formed a 
striking picture, which stood out supreme, 

and I might say, without disrespect, seemed 
to make the rest of the distinguished House 
appear insignificant by his side. He looked 
indeed " the noblest Roman of them all," 
and only lacked the picturesque toga to 
remind one that he was in reality the 
tribune of the people. 

I might say incidentally that I am myself a 
Radical and believer in Home Rule, without 
in any way presuming to parade as a politician. 
But, great admirer though I was of Mr. 
Gladstone, and a stanch supporter of his 
principles, I was not so carried away by his 
dazzling oratory as not to feel conscious of 
the fact that he leaped over two vital 
obstacles — namely, the questions ol taxation 
and Irish representation in the House of 
Commons. These difficulties, it seemed to 
me, he tried to overcome like an accom- 
plished horseman negotiating a high fence. 
He was over and away again before his 
listeners had time to pause and reflect. To 
show how his audience was carried away on 
that occasion by his magnificent peroration, 
which aroused the House of Commons to a 
scene of enthusiasm that I have never seen 
equalled, I recall a Conservative member who 
was sitting next to me emotionally grasping 
my hand at the close and inquiring with 
intense excitement, " How would you vote?" 
He implied by his tone that, if the vote had 
been taken at that moment, even many of 
Gladstone's opponents would have wavered 
in their convictions. His achievement was all 
the more remarkable when we consider that 
the great statesman, who had held the most 
intellectual audience in Great Britain en- 
thralled for four hours listening breathlessly 
to his marvellous oration, was himself a man 
seventy-seven years of age. 

I had been listening watch in hand as the 
hour approached eight, for I was due to 
appear on the stage at half-past, but could 
not tear myself away from the magnetic 
influence of Mr. Gladstone. 

An incident connected with the above 
scene may be worth recording, as showing 
how a million to one chance may come off. 

There being such a great demand for 
places to hear the Home Rule debate, 
strangers who had friends in Parliament had 
their names put down for ballot. My old 
and dear friend Sir Charles Mathews and 
myself were both candidates of different 
members of Parliament. We hoped and 
wondered if we might one or other of us be 
successful in the lottery. Not only were 
we both so fortunate, but by a strange 

cotacide ™i\f@i , ffiW^i* ed next 

1 63 


to each other in a draw which comprised 
several hundreds, if not thousands, of 

11 A Pair of Spectacles " has been, I think 
I may safely say, a special favourite of the 
Royal Family, and, in addition to the per- 
formances they have witnessed at the theatre, 
I have been commanded to play it on three 
different occasions before them — once before 
the late Queen Victoria at Windsor, once at 
Sandringham before His present Majesty 
King Edward (then Prince of Wales), and 
again at the State command at Windsor 
during the visit of the German Emperor 
towards the end of last year. 

It is interesting to contrast the attitude 
of the audience at Windsor compared with 

drawing-room, while the Empress, who was 
evidently inspired by her recollections of 
the theatre in days gone by, went from one 
actor to another plying them with questions 
and showing her reviving interest in an art 
which she had encouraged and loved so 
much in the past After a little conversa- 
tion, the Queen, who was not then in very 
good health, went to bed, and we sat down 
to supper, with Prince and Princess Henry 
of Battenberg presiding. At the conclusion 
Prince Henry paid me the honour of pro- 
posing my health in a most charming speech, 
while the Queen showed that her interest 
in our welfare had not abated by sending 
down several times to ask how w r e were 
enjoying ourselves, and expressed a wish to 


From an Oripinat pik( Mihtrfo unpttbiitktd Skclth 4"-y a« QdYnirtr of Sir .f\>ht, Hare. 

that which prevails at Sandringham and 
Balmoral, where, being the private homes 
of the monarch s, State forms and ceremonies 
are relaxed, 

I must revert to my earlier days at the 
Garrick to speak of the performance of 
" Diplomacy," in which I had the co-opera- 
tion of Mr + and Mrs, Bancroft, as also when it 
was played at Balmoral, That latter event will 
be ever memorable to me for the great kind- 
ness and consideration shown us by Queen 
Victoria, and the care she took to make our 
visit enjoyable in every way. It was rendered 
doubly interesting by the presence of the 
Empress Eugenie, this being the first 
theatrical performance she had witnessed 
since her departure from France in 1871. I 
still retain in my mind the picturesque and 
pathetic sight of the two widowed Queens 
entering the Royal room together, and the 
charming and courtly manner in which they 
curtsied to each other before taking their 
respective chairs. 

After the performance the late Queen 
received us with her other guests in the 

know M how Mr. Hare 
Prince Henry's speech." 

It is needless to say that " Diplomacy * 
had proved one of our most successful 
revivals at the Garrick, where, in addition 
to the invaluable support of the Bancrofts, 
my company included I^ady Monckton, Miss 
Kate Rorke, and Miss Olga Nethersole, Mr. 
Forbes-Robertson, Mr. Arthur Cecil, and my 
son Gilbert. 

On March 7th, 1891, I produced l( I^ady 
Bountiful," a charming play by Mr. Pinero, 
which, however, did not meet with the 
measure of success it deserved, owing, 
possibly, to its being of too sad a nature. 
The following letter from Millais at that 
time displays his critical acumen, and at 
the same time a keen appreciation of the 
drama 1 — 

2, Palace Gate^ Kensington* 

Sunday, March 8, 1891* 

Dear Harb, — Whoever may be the final result of 
the play you produced last night, I am sure you ititre 
justified in bringing it he fore the public* It has the 
elements of \ lading success, in spite of some jarring 



can be rectified. Pinero has estrat .dinary talent and 
knowledge of the stage, great oiij inality and finish, 
but in the scene between Camilla a id Sergeant Veale 
(just before the death) he has prolonged the painful 
beyond the endurance of a modern audience, I 
could see by the faces and gestures of all around me 
a fading of impatience to have it over. Indeed, t 
think the death on the stage a mistake, albeit all that 
occurs is touching and good if in a novel. The end is 
exceedingly clever and dramatic, and the piece full of 
character and interest. Some little details struck me 
as capable of improvement* Dennis went out of his 
own door before Phi 11 iter, to whom he should give 
precedence, and Margaret Veale in her weakened 
state should not lift a heavy jug to smell the flowers \ 
her hushand might do that for her 

The acting was admirable and my department — 
scenery— charming* Now don't say, u Why doesn't 
Sir John stick to his own gallipots and leave criticism 
of my business to those who understand it? 1 ' Believe 

presented the picture when finished to my 

The recollection of the hours that I spent 
in Miliars company (and I had over twenty 
sittings for this portrait) remains a treasured 
memory. He was as delightful in his con- 
versation while engaged in the exercise of his 
art as he was in private life. I was never 
allowed to see the portrait until it was quite 
finished. Directly a sitting was completed, 
and I attempted to get a glimpse of his work, 
he would turn its face to the wall and say, 
" Run a way j boy " (an affectionate attitude he 
frequently adopted to me, though there was 
no great disparity in our ages), as he pushed 
me playfully out of the room. 


>™« a Photo, bit Window ^t fj-rvve. 

me 1 have only written as a loving friend. — Yours 
sincerely, J. \\. Mil 1 a is. 

In my art I find people who art. 1 very ignorant 
make vtrry sensible remarks — better often than the 
connoisseur— they generally light on ihe raw. 

One of my happiest memories of that 
period is of when I sat to Millais for my 
portrait, at the request of the great artist 
himself This was indeed a labour of love 
on his part, for he not only paid me the 
compliment of inviting me to sit for it, but 

VoL xxitvL— 22 

Among Miliars greatest friends were John 
Bright and Henry James (now Lord James 
of Hereford), and it may interest my readers 
to see the famous trio reproduced in the 
signed photograph on page 171, taken in 
Scotland, and presented to me by Lord 
James of Hereford. With Lord James it 
has been my privilege to enjoy an unin- 
terrupted friendship of nearly forty years ; a 
more kind and sympathetic friend maji never 


j 7° 


the Picture b V .^r J. K MitlaU, PEA. 

Mr. John Bright I only met once, and 
under the following circumstances, I was 
going to Manchester to fulfil an engagement, 
and arrived at the station just as the train 
was about to starL The guard opened the 
door of a carriage, and, as I entered, whispered 
confidentially in my ear: "The gentleman in 
the corner h Mr. John Bright, who is going 
to Rochdale. 1 ' We entered into a conversa- 

tion full of interest to me, which lasted during 
the whole time occupied by our journey, dis 
cussing various subjects, and, amongst others, 
the lovable qualities of our mutual friend, 
Millais. 1 recall one typical remark by 
Bright, which struck me very much by 
reason ot. its. spontaneity and penetration, 
asked mm^apropbs'lAf some political topic 
welifrU)tfl^lJli^n^l€lilfi.WJdo you account 



4tfJ* 'ft? 



for the fact, Mr. Bright, that most great poets 
have been Liberal in their politics?" His 
immediate answer was t u It is not difficult to 
understand that, for the noblest theme by 
which a poet can be inspired is Freedom I " 

My next most important production at the 
Garrick Theatre was *'A Fool's Paradise," 
by Sydney Grundy, originally called " The 
Mousetrap. 1 * 

It was in *' A Fool's Paradise" that young 
Harry Irving made his first success and gave 
promise of that ability lie has since developed 
lo a degree which has already given him a 
high position in his profession. His first 
appearance had taken place in my revival of 
"School," and no doubt his performance was 
marred by the nervousness of a beginner and 
was not altogether successful. His father 
was very anxious about him, but I had no 
doubt as to his latent ability, and told Sir 
Henry so. The following is an extract 
from a letter I received from Irving subse- 
quently, and will speak for itself: — 

, . + . I am afraid that J Tarry has been a great 
Anxiety and worry to you, bul your affect innate 
kindness will t*C remembered by him as long as 
he lives. 

For myself* my dear llare t I have no words to 
thank you with. 

No one could or would have done what you have 
done, and with my heart and soul I hope and trust 
yoa may not lie disappointed. 

God bless you, old friend. — Kver, 

Henry Irving. 

September 4th, 1891. 

I hear thaL you are doing great things — it serves 
you right ! If that Sunday re hears id conies off I'd 
like to look in, but unknown to young Beaufoy, for, 
as you say, his lordship is very nervous at times. 

PAC^lMK.K oh sl^-N'AH'kF. dF SIK HKM(Y ikVim. 

I have seen it stated in a certain quarter 
that Sir Henry Irving had no appreciation 
of other actors' work. The following letter t 
apropos of " A Quiet Rubber," among many 
other instances of which I am aware, points 
conclusively, ip.^Lp: . q^pt^r^ - 




15A, Grafton Street, Bond Street, W. 

Mv Dear Hark,— Thank you— thank you. Per- 
fectly delightful and remarkable. One of your 
greatest things. 

The truth of it brought tears to my eyes. 

A wonderful contrast to play with the * ' Spectacles*" 

I see you are getting bravely over your worries. 

God bless you, Henry Irving. 

May 6Lh, 1S95. 

On a revival of " Money 1 ' at the Garrick 
I was again indebted to the invaluable 
support of Sir 
Squire and 
Lady Bancroft, 
Miss Maud 
Millet t, Arthur 
Cecil, Arthur 
Bourchier* and 
Forbes- Robert- 
son ; in fact, the 
complete cast 
was one worthy 
of record, and 
lack of space 
must be my only 
excuse for not 
reproducing it 
in its entirety. 

This premtire^ 
which had pro- 
ceeded with re- 
markable enthu- 
siasm on the 
part of the audi- 
ence, was marred 
at the close by 
a tragic episode 
in t he fa tal 
seizure of 
Edmund Yates, 
who had been 
present at the 
As he was a 

persona] friend of both the Bancrofts and 
myself, this naturally cast a great gloom over 
what would have been otherwise a happy 

In 1895 I produced the last original play 
under my management of the Garrick Theatre* 
It was "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith," 
by Pinero, a play which I have always 
regarded as his finest dramatic and 
literary achievement. The play made a 
most profound impression upon me when 
the author read it, and, as in the case I have 
already described of Robertson's reading of 
"Caste," I instinctively saw his creation of 
the [Hike of St. Olphcrt come to life before 
me as Pinero read the play in his own 


From n Sketch fry Alfred liryttn. 

masterly fashion. Mrs* Patrick Campbell, 
who subsequently played the part of Mrs* 
Ebbsmith with such brilliant success, and I 
were the only two persons present at the 
reading. U*e had an absurd difficulty with 
the Censor over this play, which, however, 
was soon surmounted, as the Lord Chamber- 
lain and those associated with him recognised 
that to deny the representation of so brilliant 
a work would be to deprive the public of one 

of the most re- 
markable plays 
of the age It 
was highly 
moral, too, in 
its teaching, 
and in these 
days would have 
evoked little, if 
any, criticism 
on that score. 

In this play 
Mrs. Patrick 
Campbell was 
at her very best, 
giving a superb 
and magnetic 
of the title-role. 
The play was 
performed to 
the utmost 
capacity of the 
theatre until 
Mrs. Campbell 
was claimed by 
Mr* Tree, to 
whom she was 
under contract, 
and her loss 
was severely fell 
by me. 

During the 
run of this play we had a strange experience, 
but one not unusual with theatrical managers 
—a playgoer who happened to bear the same 
surname as Mrs. Ebbsmith objecting to its 
use on account of her character. This also 
happened in the case of * L The Second Mrs, 
Tanqueray," strangely enough both the con- 
scientious objectors being men* And yet 
I know that in the case of Ebbsmith the 
author went out of his way to find an original 
name for that character, and really thought 
he had invented one. In referring to "The 
Second Mrs. Tanqueray," I must confess that 
in not availing myself of the opportunity of 
producing this pby I made a serious mana- 



But Pinero knew his public and estimated his 
own powers better than I did. 

The immense success of " The Notorious 
Mrs. Ebbsmith " brought my tenancy of the 
Garrick to a close, and having made up my 
mind to pay an extended visit to America, 
I endeavoured to let the theatre, but in vain. 
Times have changed very much since then. 
I could not find a tenant, and, being anxious 
not to have this great responsibility on my 
shoulders, I tried to dispose of my lease. 
Weeks and months elapsed, and after con 
siderable difficulty I sold my home for what 
was not much more than a mess of pottage, 
compared with present rentals, not anticipating 
the rise in value which has resulted since. 

Before I went to America, Sir Henry 
Irving kindly suggested I should give a 
performance of " Caste " at the Lyceum 
Theatre, and I then made my first London 
appearance in the part of Eccles. By this 
revival I am reminded of an amusing slip 
made by that fine actor, Forbes-Robertson, 
when playing D'Alroy. I don't think he 
cared very much about the part, and was 
sometimes apt to be a little abstracted. At 
the performance in question — no doubt en- 
grossed in his own managerial plans, which 
were then ripening, and have since matured 
and reflected the greatest credit on himself 
and the stage he so worthily adorns — he 
came to the couplet : — 

Kinds hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman blood ! 

But in thinking of his brother, perhaps, in 

connection with the cast of a play he was 

shortly to produce, he rendered it thus : — 

Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman Forbes ! 

Again digressing for a moment, I might 
mention that whenever I got a holiday during 
my tenancy at the Garrick I availed myself 
of the opportunity to run across to Paris and 
renew my acquaintance with French art and 
French acting. On one occasion I received 
an invitation to dine from my friend Campbell 
Clarke, to meet the following distinguished 
men : MM. de Lesseps, Dumas fils, Sardou, 
Pailleron, and Rubinstein. This was indeed 
a tempting intellectual invitation ; but not 
being a fluent French conversationalist 
I had a nervous apprehension of not being 
able to take part in the discussions which 
would no doubt ensue, and declined the 

I have regretted it ever since, for it 
would have been a privilege never to be 
forgotten to have sat at the same table 
with such a unique and brilliant gathering, 

comprising some of the greatest men of their 

I was informed the next day by Sir 
Campbell Clarke that the conversation of 
the preceding night was both witty and pro- 
foundly interesting. Dumas told a story of 
his father which I think well worth repeating 

Dumas pere was anxious to submit his 
now celebrated but then unfinished comedy 
of "Mile, de Belle Isle" to the Com&lie 
Fran^aise. At last a day was appointed. 
The societaires and director of the Fran9aise 
were assembled, and Dumas came up for 
judgment and commenced the task of 
reading his play before that august and 
exceedingly critical body. He read the 
first act, which was received in complete 
silence. The second act passed without 
comment. The third act also elicited no 
signs of approval from his frozen critics, 
but at the conclusion of the wonder- 
ful fourth act there was a palpable stir 
amongst tke members, and the director, 
after a moment's whispered conversation 
with his confreres, called upon them to retire 
into another room. Dumas was left waiting 
in anxious suspense. On the return of the 
members into the room amends were made 
for their previous coldness, by the director 
stating that, speaking for himself and the 
body of the societaires assembled, they con- 
sidered his comedy a most brilliant one, 
and, to show their appreciation of it, they 
begged to assure him that, if the fifth act 
was as good as the preceding four, the play 
should be put at once into rehearsal, and 
would be the next production at the Com^die 

Dumas had not written a word of the last 
act, but, not daring to risk the chance offered 
him, he made a call upon that wonderfully 
inventive brain, stood up with his back to the 
fire, and pretending K> read from the blank 
pages of his manuscript, delivered himself of 
Act V. Those who have seen or read this 
wonderful comedy — -a masterpiece of con- 
struction and engrossing interest — can 
readily understand that the director and 
societaires of the Comedie Fran£aise ful- 
filled their promise. " Mile, de Belle Isle " 
was produced with enormous success, and 
remains to the present day one of the 
features of the repertoire of the French 
National Theatre. 

To return to my own career, prior to my 
departure for the States my friends paid me 
the compliment ;jjcrfa|e(iiitertaining me at a 
farewelln|dffpppnm ^«ji| Whitehall Rooms. 




/■Vofii u Skftfh hy ftttrry frirtii**. 

The occasion was a memorable one for 
me, and remarkable for the reason that the 
gathering was representative of all that was 
distinguished in art and literature, besides 
being noteworthy for brilliant speeches by 
Lord Rath more 
and Sir Frank 
Lock wood. The 
Duke of Fife pre- 
sided, and every- 
body conspired to 
shower kindnesses 
upon me, which 
I still recollect 
with feelings of 
the deepest grati- 

The skeli h by 
Harry Kumiss, 
reproduced above, 

symbolical of my departure for the States, 
may be of interest, as also the sketch by Mr. 
Abbey, R.A., presented to each member of 
the Kinsman Club at a farewell dinner they 
gave me before my departure for the States, 

I am there repre- 
., senteel as bringing 

back both dollars 
and hearts, I wont 
say much about 
the former, hut I 
do believe that I , 
had the happiness 
of making some 
new and true 
friends amongst 
our cousins across 
the sea — friends 
that I hope to meet 
again some time. 




by Google 

{7h he continued.} 

Original from 



,_ i ;.* -T^V 



OAN HARTLEY returned to 
Salthaven a week after Captain 
Trimb bit's departure, and, with 
a lively sense of her friability 
to satisfy the curiosity of her 
friends, spent most of the time 
indoors. To evade her father's inquiries she 
adopted other measures, and the day after 
her return, finding I Kith her knowledge and 
imagination inadequate to the task of satisfy- 
ing him, she first waxed impatient and 
then tearfuk Kimlly she said that she was 
thoroughly tired of the subject, and expressed 
a fervent hope that she might hear no more 
about it. Any further particulars would be 
furnished by Captain Trimblctt, upon his 

M But when I asked him about it he 
referred me to you," said Hartley. "The 
whole affair h most incomprehensible/ 1 

w We thought it would be a surprise to 

you," agreed Joan. 'onoLr 

" It was/ said her father, gloom if^jlArt 

Copyright, 1905, try W, \V. Jacobs, 

if you arc satisfied, 1 suppose it is all 

He returned to the attack ne\t day. but 
gained little information. Miss Hartley's 
ideas concerning the various marriage cere- 
monies were of the vaguest, but by the aid 
of " \V hi taker's Almanack " she was enabled 
to declare that the marriage had taken place 
by licence at a church in the district where 
Trimblett was staying. As a help to identi- 
fication she added that the church was built 
of stone, and that the pew opener had a 
cough. Tiresome questions concerning the 
marriage certificate were disposed ot by 
leaving it in the captain's pocket book. And 
again she declared that she was tired of the 

st I can't imagine what your aunt was think- 
ing about/' said her father. "If you bad let 
me write> " 

"She knew nothing about it," said Joan, 
hastily ; "and if you had written 10 her she 
would have Qnbpg'hll fhattlyou were finding 
fault wi^j^^^^p^^^r me more, 

in the United States of America. 



It's done now, and if I'm satisfied and 
Captain Trimblett is satisfied that is all that 
matters. You didn't want me to be an old 
maid, did you ? " 

Mr. Hartley gave up the subject in despair, 
but Miss Willett, who called a day or two 
later, displayed far more perseverance. After 
the usual congratulations she sat down to 
discuss the subject at length, and subjected 
Joan to a series of questions which the latter 
had much difficulty in evading. For a newly- 
married woman, Miss Willett could only 
regard her knowledge of matrimony as hazy 
in the extreme. 

" She don't want to talk about it," said 
Mr. Truefitt the following evening as he sat 
side by side with Miss Willett in the little 
summer-house overlooking the river. " Per- 
haps she is repenting it already." 

" It ought to be a tender memory," sighed 
Miss Willett. " I'm sure " 

She broke off and blushed. 

" Yes ? " said Mr. Truefitt, pinching her 
arm tenderly. 

"Never mind," breathed Miss Willett. 
" I mean— I was only going to say that I 
don't think the slightest detail would have 
escaped me. All she seems to remember is 
that it took place in a church." 

"It must have been by licence, I should 
think," said Mr. Truefitt, scowling thought- 
fully. " Ordinary licence, I should say. I 
have been reading up about them lately. 
One never knows what may happen." 

Miss Willett started. 

" Trimblett has not behaved well," con- 
tinued Mr. Truefitt, slowly, " by no means, 
but I must say that he has displayed a cer- 
tain amount of dash ; he didn't allow any- 
thing or anybody to come between him and 
matrimony. He just went and did it." 

He passed his arm round Miss Willett's 
waist and gazed reflectively across the 

" And I suppose we shall go on waiting 
all our lives," he said at last. " We consider 
other people far too much." 

Miss Willett shook her head. " Mother 
always keeps to her word," she said, with an 
air of mournful pride. " Once she says any- 
thing she keeps to it. That's her firmness. 
She won't let me marry so long as Mrs. 
Chinnery stays here. We must be patient." 

Mr. Truefitt rumpled his hair irritably and 
for some time sat silent. Then he leaned 
forward and, in a voice trembling with excite- 
ment, whispered in the lady's ear. 

" Peter ! " gasped Miss Willett, and drew 
back and eyed him in trembling horror. 

"Why not?" said Mr. Truefitt, with an 
effort to speak stoutly. " It's our affair." 

Miss Willett shivered and, withdrawing 
from his arm, edged away to the extreme 
end of the seat and averted her gaze. 

"It's quite easy," whispered the tempter. 

Miss Willett, still looking out at the door, 
affected not to hear. 

" Not a soul would know until afterwards," 
continued Mr. Truefitt, in an ardent whisper. 
" It could all be kept as quiet as possible. I'll 
have the licence ready, and you could just 
slip out for a morning walk and meet me at 
the church, and there you are. And it's ridi- 
culous of two people of our age to go to such 

" Mother would never forgive me," mur- 
mured Miss Willett. " Never ! " 

"She'd come round in time," said Mr. 

" Never ! " said Miss Willett. " You don't 
know mother's strength of mind. But I 
mustn't stay and listen to such things. It's 
wicked ! " 

She got up and slipped into the garden, 
and with Mr. Truefitt in attendance paced 
up and down the narrow paths. 

" Besides," she said, after a long silence, 
" I shouldn't like to share housekeeping with 
your sister. It would only lead to trouble 
between us, I am sure." 

Mr. Truefitt came to a halt in the middle 
of the path, and stood rumpling his hair 
again as an aid to thought. Captain Sellers, 
who was looking over his fence, waved a 
cheery salutation. 

" Fine evening," he piped. 

The other responded with a brief nod. 

"What did you say?" inquired Captain 
Sellers, who was languishing for a little 

" Didn't say anything ! " bawled Mr. 

" You must speak up if you want me to 
hear you ! " cried the captain. " It's one 
o' my bad days." 

Truefitt shook his head, and placing him- 
self by the side of Miss Willett resumed his 
walk. Three fences away, Captain Sellers 
kept pace with them. 

"Nothing fresh about Trimblett, I 
suppose ? " he yelled. 

Truefitt shook his head again. 

" He's a deep 'un ! " cried Sellers — " won- 
derful deep ! How's the other one ? Bearing 
up ? I ain't seen her about the last day or 
two. I believe that was all a dodge of 
Trimblett's to put us off the scent. It made 




Mr. Truefitt, with a nervous glance at the 
open windows of his house, turned and 
walked hastily down the garden again. 

" He quite deceived me," continued Cap- 
tain Sellers, following — "quite. What did 
you say ? " 

"Nothing," bawled Mr. Truefitt, with 
sudden ferocity. 

" Eh ? " yelled the captain, leaning over 
the fence with his hand to his ear. 

" Nothing ! " 

" Eh ? " said the captain, anxiously. 
** Speak up ! What ? " 

"Oh, go to— Jericho!" muttered Mr. True- 
fitt, and, taking Miss Willett by the arm, 
disappeared into the summer-house again. 
" Where were we when that old idiot inter- 
rupted us ? " he inquired, tenderly. 

Miss Willett told him, and, nestling within 
his encircling arm, listened with as forbidding 
an expression as she could command to 
further arguments on the subject of secret 

" It's no use," she said at last. " I mustn't 
listen. It's wicked. I am surprised at you, 
Peter. You must never speak to me on the 
subject again." 

She put her head on his shoulder, and 
Mr. Truefitt, getting a better grip with his 
arm, drew he/ towards him. 

"Think it over," he whispered, and bent 
and kissed her. 

" Never," was the reply. 

Mr. Truefitt kissed her again, and was 
about to repeat the performance when she 
started up with a faint scream, and, pushing 
him away, darted from the summer-house 
and fled up the garden. Mr. Truefitt, red 
with wrath, stood his ground and stared 
ferociously at the shrunken figure of Captain 
Sellers standing behind the little gate in the 
fence that gave on to the foreshore. The 
captain, with a cheery smile, lifted the latch 
and entered the garden. 

" I picked a little bunch o' flowers for 
Miss Willett," he said, advancing and placing 
them on the table. 

" W 7 ho told you to come into my garden?" 
shouted the angry Mr. Truefitt. 

" Yes, all of 'em," said Captain Sellers, 
taking up the bunch and looking at them. 
" Smell ! " 

He thrust the bunch into the other's face, 
and withdrawing it plunged his own face into 
it with rapturous sniffs. Mr. Truefitt, his 
nose decorated with pollen ravished from a 
huge lily, eyed him murderously. 

" Get out of my garden," he said, with an 
imperious wave of his hand. 

Vol. xxx vi— 23. 


" I can't hear what you say," said the 
captain, following the direction of the other's 
hand and stepping outside. " Sometimes I 
think my deafness gets worse. It's a great 

" Is it ? " said Mr. Truefitt. He made a 
funnel of both hands and bent to the old 
man's willing ear. 

" You're an artful, interfering, 


bellowed. " Can you hear that ? " 

" Say it again," said the captain, his old 
eyes snapping. 

Mr. Truefitt complied. 

" I didn't quite catch the last word," said 
the captain. 

" Busybody! " yelled Mr. Truefitt. "Busy- 
body! B-u-s " 

"I heard," said Captain Sellers, with sudden 
and alarming dignity. " Take your coat off." 

" Get out of my garden," responded Mr. 
Truefitt, briefly. 

"Take your coat off," repeated Captain 
Sellers, sternly. He removed his own after 
a little trouble, and rolling back his shirt- 
sleeves stood regarding with some pride a 
pair of yellow, skinny old arms. Then he 
clenched his fists, and, with an agility 
astonishing in a man of his years, indulged 
in a series of galvanic little hops in front of 
the astounded Peter Truefitt. 

" Put your hands up ! " he screamed. " Put 
'em up, you tailor's dummy ! Put 'em up, 
you Dutchman ! " 

" Go out of my garden," repeated the 
marvelling Mr. Truefitt. "Go home and 
have some gruel and go to bed ! " 

Captain Sellers paid no heed. Still per- 
forming marvellous things with his feet, he 
ducked his head over one shoulder, feinted 
with his left at Mr. Truefitt's face, and struck 
with his right somewhere near the centre of 
his opponent's waistcoat. Mr. Truefitt, still 
gazing at him open-mouthed, retreated back- 
wards, and, just as the captain's parchment- 
like fist struck him a second time, tripped 
over a water-can that had been left in the 
path and fell heavily on his back in a flower- 

"Time!" cried Captain Sellers, breath- 
lessly, and pulled out a big silver watch to 
consult, as Miss Willett came hurrying down 
the garden, followed by Mrs. Chinnery. 

" Peter ! " wailed Miss Willett, going on her 
knees and raising his head. " Oh, Peter ! " 

"Has he hurt you?" inquired Mrs. 
Chinnery, stooping. 

" No ; I'm a bit shaken," said Mr. Truefitt, 
crossly. " I fell over thai bla — blessed water- 


i 7 8 


can. Take that old marionette away, Fm 
afraid to touch him for fear he'll fall to 
pieces. " 

" Time ! " panted Captain Sellers, stowing 
his watch away and resuming his prancing. 
" Come on ! Lively with it ! " 

Miss Willett uttered a faint scream and 
thrust her hand out. 

" Lor' bless the man ! " cried Mrs. 
Chinnery, regarding the old gentleman's 
antics with much amazement. " Go away ! 
Go away at once ! " 

She stepped forward, and her attitude was 
so threatening that Captain Sellers hesitated. 
Then he turned, and, picking up his coat, 
began to struggle into it 

" I hope it will be a lesson to him," he 
said, glaring at Mr. Truefitt, who had risen 
by this time and was feeling his back. "You 
see what comes of insulting an old sea-dog." 

He turned and made his way to the 
gate, refusing with a wave of his hand Mrs. 
Chinnery's offer to help him down the three 
steps leading to the shore. With head erect 
and a springy step he gained his own garden, 
and even made a pretence of attending to 
a flower or two before sitting down. Then 
the deck-chair claimed him, and he lay, a 
limp bundle of aching old bones, until his 
housekeeper came down the garden to see 
what had happened to him. 

For the first week or two after Joan 
Hartley's return Mr. Robert Vyner went 
about in a state of gloomy amazement. 
Then, the first shock of surprise over, he 
began to look about him in search of reasons 
for a marriage so undesirable. A few casual 
words with Hartley at odd times only served 
to deepen the mystery, and he learned with 
growing astonishment of the chief clerk's 
ignorance of the whole affair. A faint 
suspicion, which he had at first dismissed as 
preposterous, persisted in recurring to him, 
and grew in strength every time the subject 
was mentioned between them. His spirits 
improved, and he began to speak of the 
matter so cheerfully that Hartley became 
convinced that everybody concerned had 
made far too much of ordinary atten- 
tions paid by an ordinary young man to 
a pretty girl. Misled by his son's be- 
haviour, Mr. Vyner, senior, began to entertain 
the same view of the affair. 

" Just a boyish admiration," he said to his 
wife, as they sat alone one evening. " All 
young men go through it at some time or 
other. It's a sort of — ha — vaccination, and 

Digitized by LiOOQ IC 

the sooner they have it and get over it the 

" He has quite got over it, I think," said 
Mrs. Vyner, slowly. 

Mr. Vyner nodded. " Lack of opposition," 
he said, with a satisfied air. " Lack of visible 
opposition, at any rate. These cases require 
management. Many a marriage has been 
caused by the efforts made to prevent it." 

Mrs. Vyner sighed. Her husband had an 
irritating habit of taking her a little way into 
his confidence and then leaving the rest to 
an imagination which was utterly inadequate 
to the task. 

" There is nothing like management," she 
said, safely. " And I am sure nobody could 
have had a better son. He has never caused 
us a day's anxiety." 

" Not real anxiety," said her husband — 

Mrs. Vyner averted her eyes. "When," 
she said, gently — "when are you going to 
give him a proper interest in the firm ? " 

Mr. Vyner thrust his hands into his trouser 
pockets and leaned back in his chair. "I 
have been thinking about it," he said, slowly. 
" He would have had it before but for this 
nonsense. Nothing was arranged at first, 
because I wanted to see how he was going to 
do. His work is excellent — excellent" 

It was high praise, but it was deserved, 
and Mr. Robert Vyner would have been the 
first to admit it. His monstrous suspicion 
was daily growing less monstrous and more 
plausible. It became almost a conviction, 
and he resolved to test it by seeing Joan and 
surprising her with a few sudden careless 
remarks of the kind that a rising K.C. might 
spring upon a particularly difficult witness. 
For various reasons he chose an afternoon 
when the senior partner was absent, and, 
after trying in vain to think out a few 
embarrassing questions on the way, arrived 
at the house in a condition of mental 

The obvious agitation of Miss Hartley as 
she shook hands did not tend to put him at 
his ease. He stammered something about 
"congratulations" and the girl stammered 
something about "thanks," after which they 
sat still and eyed each other nervously. 

"Beautiful day," said Mr. Vyner at last, 
and comforted himself with the reflection 
that the most eminent K.C.'s often made 
inane remarks with the idea of throwing 
people off their guard. 

Miss Hartley said " Yes." 

" I hope you had a nice time in town ? " he 
said, sudden^- 




" Very nice," said Joan, eyeing him 

" But of course you did," said Robert, 
with an air of sudden remembrance. " I 
suppose Captain Trimblett knows London 
pretty well ? " 

" Pretty well," repeated the witness. 

Mr. Vyner eyed her thoughtfully. " I hope 
you won't mind my saying so," he said, slowly, 
"but I was awfully pleased to hear of your 

of her mouth. He changed his seat for one 
nearer to hers, and leaning forward eyed 
her gravely. Her colour deepened and she 
breathed quickly. 

" Don't — don't you think Captain Trimb- 
lett is lucky ? " she inquired, with an attempt 
at audacity. 

Mr. Vyner pondered. "No," he said at 

Miss Hartley caught her breath. 

-- — % 


marriage. I think it is always nice to hear 
of one's friends marrying each other." 

" Yes," said the girl. 

" And Trimblett is such a good chap," 
continued Mr. Vyner. " He is so sensible 
for his age." 

He paused expectantly, but nothing 

" So bright and cheerful," he explained. 

Miss Hartley still remaining silent, he 
broke off and sat quietly watching her. To 
his eyes she seemed more charming than 
ever. There was a defiant look in her eyes, 
and a half-smile trembled round the corners 

" How rude ! " she said, after a pause, 
lowering her eyes. 

" No, it isn't," said Robert. 

" Really ! " remonstrated Miss Hartley. 

" I think that I am luckier than he is," 
said Robert, in a low voice. " At least, I 
hope so. Shall I tell you why ? " 

" No," said Joan, quickly. 

Mr. Vyner moistened his lips. 

" Perhaps you know," he said, unsteadily. 

Joan made no reply. 

" You do know," said Robert. 

Miss Hartley looked up with a sudden, 
careless laugh. 




11 It sounds like a conundrum," she said, 
gaily. "But it doesn't matter. I hope you 
will be lucky." 

" I intend to be," said Robert. 

"My hus — husband," said Joan, going 
very red, " would probably use the word 
'fate' instead of Muck.'" 

" It is a favourite word of my wife's," said 
Robert, gravely. "Ah, what a couple they 
would have made ! " 

"IVSio?" inquired Joan, eyeing him in 

" My wife and your husband," said Robert. 
" I believe they were made for each other." 

Miss Hartley retreated in good order. " I 
think you are talking nonsense," she said, 
with some dignity. 

"Yes," said Robert, with a smile. " Ground- 

" What ? " said Joan, in a startled voice. 


Miss Hartley made an appeal to his better 
feelings. " You are making my head ache," 
she said, pathetically. " I'm sure I don't 
know what you are talking about." 

Mr. Vyner apologized, remarking that it 
was a common fault of young husbands to 
talk too much about their wives, and added, 
as an interesting fact, that he had only been 
married that afternoon. Miss Hartley turned 
a deaf ear. 

He spread a little ground-bait — of a 
different kind — before Hartley during the 
next few days, and in a short time had arrived 
at a pretty accurate idea of the state of affairs. 
It was hazy and lacking in detail, but it was 
sufficient to make him give Laurel Lodge a 
wide berth for the time being, and to work 
still harder for that share in the firm which 
he had always been given to understand 
would be his. In the meantime he felt that 
Joan's mariage de convenance was a comfort- 
able arrangement for all parties concerned. 

This was still his view of it as he sat in 
his office one afternoon about a couple of 
months after Captain Trimblett's departure. 
He had met Miss Hartley in the street 
the day before, and, with all due regard to 
appearances, he could not help thinking that 
she had been somewhat unnecessarily demure. 
In return she had gone away with three 
crushed fingers and a colour that was only 
partially due to exercise. He was leaning 
back in his chair thinking it over when his 
father entered. 

" Busy ? " inquired John Vyner. 
" Frightfully," said his son, unclasping his 
hands from the back of his head. 

" I have just been speaking to Hartley," 

said the senior partner, watching him keenly. 
" I had a letter this morning from the 
Trimblett family." 

" Eh ? " said his son, staring. 

" From the eldest child — a girl named 
Jessie," replied the other. " It appears that 
a distant cousin who has been in charge of 
them has died suddenly, and she is rather at 
a loss what to do. She wrote to me about 
sending the captain's pay to her." 

" Yes," said his son, nodding ; " but what 
has Hartley got to do with it ? " 

" Do with it ? " repeated Mr. Vyner, in 
surprised tones. " I take it that he is in a 
way their grandfather." 

"Gran " began his son, and sat gasping. 

"Yes, of course," he said, presently, "of course. 
I hadn't thought of that. Of course." 

" From his manner at first Hartley 
appeared to have forgotten it too," said Mr. 
Vyner, " but he soon saw with me that the 
children ought not to be left alone. The 
eldest is only seventeen." 

Robert tried to collect his thoughts. 
" Yes," he said, slowly. 

" He has arranged for them to come and 
live with him," continued Mr. Vyner. 

The upper part of his son's body dis- 
appeared with startling suddenness over the 
arm of his chair and a hand began groping 
blindly in search of a fallen pen. A 
dangerous rush of blood to the head was 
perceptible as he regained the perpendicular. 

"Was— was Hartley agreeable to that?" 
he inquired, steadying his voice. 

His father drew himself up in his chair. 
"Certainly," he said, stiffly; "he fell in with 
the suggestion at once. It ought to have 
occurred to him first. Besides the relation- 
ship, he and Trimblett are old friends. The 
captain is an old servant of the firm, and his 
children must be looked after ; they couldn't 
be left alone in London." 

" It's a splendid idea," said Robert — 
"splendid. By far the best thing that you 
could have done." 

"I have told him to write to the girl 
to-night," said Mr. Vyner. " He is not 
sure that she knows of her father's second 
marriage. And I have told him to take a 
day or two off next week and go up to town 
and fetch them. It will be a little holiday 
for him." 

" Quite a change for him," agreed Robert. 
Conscious of his father's scrutiny, his face 
was absolutely unmoved and his voice easy. 
" How many children are there ? " 

" Five," was the reply—" so she says in the 
letter. The two youngest are twins." 




For the fraction of a second something 
flickered across the face of Robert Vyner 
and was gone. 

"Trimblett's second marriage was rather 
fortunate for them," he said, in a matter-of- 
fact voice. 

The startled Robert threw up his arm. 
There was a crash of glass, and Bassett, with 
his legs apart and the water streaming down 
his face, stood regarding him with oAvlish 
consternation. His idea that the junior 
partner was suffering from a species of fit 


He restrained his feelings until his father 
had gone, and then, with a gasp of relief, put 
his head on the table and gave way to them. 
Convulsive tremors assailed him, and hilarious 
sobs escaped at intervals from his tortured 
frame. Ejaculations of " Joan ! " and " Poor 
girl ! " showed that he was not entirely bereft 
of proper feeling. 

His head was still between his arms upon 
the table and his body still shaking, when 
the door opened and Bassett entered the 
room and stood gazing at him in a state of 
mild alarm. He stood for a minute diagnos- 
ing the case, and then, putting down a 
handful of papers, crossed softly to the 
mantelpiece and filled a tumbler with water. 
He came back and touched the junior 
partner respectfully on the elbow. 

11 Will you try and drink some of this, sir ? " 
he said, soothingly. 

was confirmed by the latter suddenly snatch- 
ing his hat from its peg and darting wildly 
from the room. 

Mrs. Willett sat in her small and over- 
furnished living-room in a state of open- 
eyed amazement. Only five minutes before 
she had left the room to look for a pair of 
shoes whose easiness was their sole reason 
for survival, and as a last hope had looked 
under Cecilia's bed, and discovered the 
parcels. Three parcels all done up in brown 
paper and ready for the post, adressed in 
Cecilia's handwriting to : — 

Mrs. P. Truefitt, 

Findlatcr's Private Hotel, 

Finsbury Circus, London. 

She smoothed her cap-strings down with 
trembling hands and tried to think. The 




autumn evening was closing in, but she made 
no attempt to obtain a light. Her mind was 
becoming active, and the shadows aided 
thought. At ten o'clock her daughter, 
returning from Tranquil Vale, was surprised 
to find her sitting in the dark. 

" Why, haven't you had any supper?" she 
inquired, lighting the gas. 

"I didn't want any," said her mother, 
blinking at the sudden light. 

Miss Willett turned and pulled down the 
blinds. Then she came back, and, standing 
behind her mother's chair, placed a hand 
upon her shoulder. 

"It —it will be lonely for you when I've 
gone, mother," she said, smoothing the old 
ladv's lace collar 

" Gone ? " repeated Mrs. Willett. " Gone ? 
Why, has that woman consented to go at 
last ? " 

Miss Willett shrank back. "No," she 
said, trembling, "but " 

" You can't marry till she does," said Mrs. 
Willett, gripping the arms of her chair. 
" Not with my consent, at any rate. 
Remember that Tm not going to give 
way ; she must." 

Miss Willett said "Yes, mother," in a 
dutiful voice, and then, avoiding her gaze, 
took a few biscuits from the sideboard. 

" There's a difference between strength of 
mind and obstinacy," continued Mrs. Willett. 
" It's obstinacy with her — sheer obstinacy ; 
and I am not going to bow down to it — 
there's no reason why I should. " 

Miss Willett said " No, mother." 

" If other people like to bow down to 
her," said Mrs. Willett, smoothing her dress 
over her knees, "that's their lookout. But 
she won't get me doing it." 

She went up to bed and lay awake half the 
night, and, rising late next morning in con- 
sequence, took advantage of her daughter's 
absence to peer under the bed. The parcels 
had disappeared. She went downstairs, with 
her faded but alert old eyes watching 
Cecilia's every movement. 

" When does Mr. Truefitt begin his 
holidays ? " she inquired, at last 

Miss Willett, who had been glancing rest- 
lessly at the clock, started violently. 

"To— to — to-day," she gasped. 

Mrs. Willett said " Oh ! " 

" I — I was going out with him at eleven — 
for a little walk," said her daughter, nervously. 
"Just a stroll." 

Mrs. Willett nodded. " Do you good," 
she said, slowly. " What are you going to 

Digitized by ^OOQ IC 

Her daughter, still trembling, looked at 
her in surprise. " This," she said, touching 
her plain brown dress. 

Mrs Willett's voice began to tremble. 
" It's— it's rather plain," she said. " I like 
my daughter to be nicely dressed, especially 
when she is going out with her future husband. 
Go upstairs and put on your light green." 

Miss Willett, paler than ever, gave a hasty 
and calculating glance at the clock and dis- 

" And your new hat," Mrs. Willett called 
after her. 

She looked at the clock too, and then, 
almost as excited as her daughter, began to 
move restlessly about the room. Her hands 
shook, and going up to the glass over the 
mantelpiece she removed her spectacles and 
dabbed indignantly at her eyes. By the 
time Cecilia returned she was sitting in her 
favourite chair, a picture of placid and indif- 
ferent old age. 

" That's better," she said, with an approv- 
ing nod ; " much better." 

She rose, and going up to her daughter 
rearranged her dress a little. "You look 
very nice, dear," she said, with a little cough. 
" Mr. Truefitt ought to be proud of you. 

Her daughter kissed her, and then, having 
got as far as the door, came back and kissed 
her again. She made a second attempt to 
depart, and then, conscience proving too 
much for her, uttered a stifled sob and came 
back to her mother. 

" Oh, I can't," she wailed ; " I can't" 

" You'll be late," said her mother, pushing 
her away. " Good-bye." 

" I can't," sobbed Miss Willett ; " I can't 
do it I'm — I'm deceiving " 

" Yes, yes," said the old lady, hastily ; "tell 
me another time. Good-bye." 

She half led and half thrust her daughter 
to the door. 

" But," said the tender-hearted Cecilia, 
" you don't under " 

" A walk will do you good," said her 
mother ; " and don't cry ; try and look your 

She managed to close the door on her, and 
her countenance cleared as she heard her 
daughter open the hall door and pass out 
Standing well back in the room, she watched 
her to the gate, uttering a sharp exclamation 
of annoyance as Cecilia, with a woebegone 
shake of the head, turned and came up the 
path again. A loud tap at the window and a 
shake of the head were necessary to drive 
her on. \JX\ 





Mrs, Willett gave her a few minuted start, 
and then, in a state of extraordinary excite- 
ment, went upstairs and, with fingers trem- 
bling with haste, put on her bonnet and cape. 

" You're not going out alone at this time o' 
the morning, ma'am ? " said the old servant, 
as she came down again. 

"Just as far as the corner, Martha," said 
the old lady, craftily. 

41 I'd better come with you," said the other. 

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Willett. u I'm 
quite strong this morning. Go un with your 

She took up her stick and, opening the 
door, astonished Martha by her nimblcness. 
At the gate she looked right and left, and for 
the first time in her life felt that there were 
too many churches in Salthaven. For several 
reasons, the chief being that Cecilia's father 
lay in the churchyard, she decided to try 
St Peter's first, and, having procured a cab 
at the end of the road, instructed the cabman 
to drive to within fifty yards of the building 
and wait for her. 

The church was open, and a peep through 

the swing-doors showed her a small group 
standing before the altar. With her hand on 
her side she hobbled up the stone steps to 
the gallery, and, helping herself along by the 
sides of the pews, entered the end one of 
them alt and sank exhausted on the cushions. 

The service had just commenced, and the 
voice of the minister sounded with unusual 
loudness in the empty church, Mr. Truefitt 
and Miss Willett stood before him like 
culprits, Mr. Truefitt glancing round uneasily 
several times as the service proceeded. Twice 
the old lavender-coloured bonnet that was 
projecting over the side of the gallery drew 
back in alarm, and twice its owner held her 
breath and rated herself sternly for her ven- 
turesomeness. She did not look over again 
until she heard a little clatter of steps pro- 
ceeding to the vestry, and then, with a hasty 
glance round, slipped out of the pew and 
made her way downstairs and out of the 

Her strength was nearly spent, but the 
cabman was on the watch, and, driving up 
to the entrance, climbed down and bundled 




her into the cab. The drive was all too 
short for her to compose herself as she 
would have liked, and she met the accu- 
satory glance of Martha with but little of her 
old spirit. 

" I went a little too far," she said, feebly, 
as the servant helped her to the door. 

" Red-currant ! " said Mrs. Willett, sharply 
" Red-currant ! Certainly not. The port." 

Martha disappeared, marvelling, to return 
a minute or two later with the wine and a 
glass on a tray. Mrs. Willett filled her glass 
and, whispering a toast to herself, half 
emptied it. 


"What did I tell you?" demanded the 
other, and placing her in her chair removed 
her bonnet and cape, and stood regarding her 
with sour disapproval. 

" I'm getting better," said the old lady, 
stoutly. " I'm getting my breath back again. 
I - I think I'll have a glass of wine." 

" Yes, 'm," said Martha, moving off. " The 
red-currant ? " 

" Martha ! " she said, looking round with a 

" Ma'am ! " 

" If you like to go and get a glass you can 
have a little drop yourself." 

She turned and took up her glass again, 
and, starting nervously, nearly let it fall as a 
loud crash sounded outside. Martha had 
fallen downstairs. 

(To be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 

(fokift Garland the D)elliiwirw= 


DOZEN lanterns showed him 
the sea-stained, rotting steps. 
A chorus of hoarse, cheerful 
voices bade him welcome. A 
score of willing hands dragged 
him through a cloud of spray 
on to the wave-swept, creaking jetty. Then, 
as he stood for a moment to regain his 
breath, from somewhere behind in that thick, 
black gulf through which he had journeyed 
came the sound of a dull grinding, the crash- 
ing of timbers, the hideous, far-off shrieking 
of human voices. A rocket went hissing up 
into the darkness, piercing with a momentary 
splendour the black veil. 

" By Heaven, she's broken in two ! " a 
voice cried. " She's gone ! " 

The rescued man turned sharply round. 
The light of the rocket was waning, yet he 
was just in time to see the slow heeling over 
of the huge, indistinguishable mass which a 
few hours ago had been a splendid liner. 

"You're the last one saved," someone 
muttered at his elbow. "The boat's going 
back, but it will be too late. God help the 
others ! " 

The rescued man nodded solemnly. 

" There are less than half-a-dozen left," he 
said, "and they had their chance. It was a 
big jump into the boats," he added. " Queer 
little cockle-shells they looked, too, from the 
deck. I've stood there for the last two hours, 
worrying the people in. I've thrown over a 
dozen, who dared not jump." 

A clergyman pushed his way through the 
group. He was drenched to the skin, bare- 
headed, and breathless. He carried an old- 
fashioned lantern in his left hand. His right 
he extended to the dripping man, who stood 
there looking like a giant amongst them. 

" I've heard of you, sir ! " he exclaimed. 
" You're John Waters, I'm sure. You did a 
man's work there. There's a mother up at 
the vicarage now, with her two children 
saved, sobbing over them and blessing you. 
You rigged up a windlass, they tell me, and 
let them down. I only wish that I had room 
at my house for you, sir, but the whole village 
is packed." 

"You're very good," the man answered. 
" I'm used to roughing it, and any place'll do 

Vol. xxxvi.— 24. 

for me. Somewhere near a fire, for choice ; 
your salt water's chilly." 

The clergyman raised his lantern and 
looked anxiously around the little circle of 

" We're seventy souls in the village," he 
said ; " it's nothing but a hamlet, and we've 
found beds for over two hundred. We'll fix 
you up directly. I've one or two names left 
yet upon my list." 

A slim woman's figure came battling her 
way along the jetty. She heard the clergy- 
man's last words, and laid her fingers upon 
his arm. He turned sharply round. There 
were not many women about that night, and 
this one seemed frail and small to battle her 
way alone in the storm. 

" My dear Miss Cressley ! " he exclaimed. 
" How ever did you get here ? " 

" I couldn't rest at home," was the quiet 
answer. " It was too terrible. And I had 
no one to send. I want to be of use. Can't 
I take someone in — a woman, or some 
children ? I have a spare room and a fire 
lit ready." 

The clergyman gave a little exclamation of 

"My dear lady," he declared, "you are 
just in time. Here's our last man, and I 
was at my wits' end to know what to do with 
him. A hero ! " he whispered in her ear. 
" He has saved no end of lives there. Bless 
you for coming, my dear, brave Miss 
Cressley," he added. "It's just like you — 
just the sort of thing you would do." 

She gave a little start, and looked doubt- 
fully at the tall, dripping figure. In his 
soaked clothes, his long brown beard, and 
his hair tossed wildly all over his face, he 
presented a somewhat singular appearance. 

" My dear madam," he said, in his deep 
bass voice, " don't please refuse me because 
I am not a woman or a child. I'll give you 
less trouble than either, I promise you. I 
won't smoke or swear. I'll do whatever I 
am told, if I can only see something to eat, a 
bed, and a fire." 

She held on to the railing of the jetty with 
both hands. Her voice sounded thin and 
quavery aga inst j rf hpf ,-, background of the 



1 86 


tiAVK A l.4TTt>: ^^Aki^ A Nil liioKKU (*JL'*i f FU I- 1 V AT THh TAIL, DRIPPING FlGLKfc, 

" I shall be very glad to take you, and to 
do what I can/' she said, a little doubtfully, 
" I mentioned a woman or children because 
I know more about them and their needs, 
and because I live alone. Will you come 
this way, sir ? " 

He turned and followed her, waving his 
hand in answer to the chorus of * l Good 
nights." They passed down the sea-soaked 
jetty between a little line of curious, sympa- 
thetic faces, and reached the village. She 
led the way up the steep street, and looked 
into his face a little timidly. 

" My cottage is close here, sir/' she said. 
" It will only take us a few minutes." 

A gust of wind almost swept her off her 
feet. He put out a great protecting hand 
and steadied her. 

"One moment," he said. " Let me help 
you. So ! " 

He turned for a last gaze seawards. There 

was no sign of light or life upon the black 
chaos of waters nothing save the clouds of 
white foam, flung up almost into their faces, 
and the sullen roar of the breaking waves, 

"God help the rest of them!" he said, 
with a sudden note of reverence in his tone. 
Then he turned to his companion. 

14 Madam/' he said, u I am ready." 

Together they climbed to the summit of 
the hill. She gently disengaged her arm 
from his. 

M I am so much stronger than I look," she 
declared, a[>ologeti rally. ** Really, I can 
manage quite well alone. My cottage is the 
last upon the left. You can see the light. 
We shall be there in a moment." 

He walked by her side in silence. Sh« 
wondered, with a sudden perturbation, 
whether he were offended. His face was 
invisible: *he could not tell that he was 



was mistaken in her years. He had taken 
her for sixty, at least. 

They reached a little wooden gate, over 
which he calmly stepped while she fumbled 
with the latch, passed up a trim garden path, 
and into the tiny hall of the tiniest cottage 
he had ever seen. Despite her warning, he 
bumped his head upon the ceiling. She 
turned up the lamp, and he looked around 
him a little ruefully. His size made the 
place appear like a doll's house. 

"If you will step upstairs," she said, 
bravely disregarding his dripping state, "I 
will show you your room." 

He looked at the stairs, with their neat 
carpet and shining brass rods, and he looked 
down at himself. 

" Look here," he said, " haven't you a 
back kitchen where I can strip and have a 
rub down? You'll have to lend me a blanket 
while my clothes dry. Good Lord ! " 

He was looking at her in blank surprise. 

"Is anything — the matter?" she asked, 

He burst out laughing. 

" Nothing ! " he answered. " Only I 
thought that you were a little old lady ! " 

She blushed desperately, and thrust back 
the curly waves of fair hair which had escaped 
in the wind. She was certainly not more 
than thirty or thirty- five, slim, with nice 
features and grey eyes, colourless, perhaps a 
little unnoticeable. 

The laugh died away. He stood and 
looked after her as she turned to ascend the 
stairs, as one might look at a ghost. 

"There are some clothes here which 
belonged to my father," she said. " Will you 
go into the room on the left? It is the 

" It is the little Cressley girl, of course," 
he said to himself, as he stood on the red 
tiles and reached out towards the fire. " Little 
Mary Cressley ! Shy little baby she used 
to be." 

Suddenly the smile spread once more over 
his face. 

" Great Scot ! I kissed her once ! " he 
muttered. "Good thing she doesn't recog- 
nise me ! " 

She came back in a few moments with a 
bottle and an armful of clothes. He decided 
that she had been practising a severe expres- 
sion in the glass, but she avoided meeting 
his eyes. 

" My father was a minister," she said, 
" and he was not quite so large as you ; but 
you must please do the best you can with 
these clothes. There is a bottle of brandy 

here, and some hot water in the kettle there. 
When you have changed your clothes, if you 
will call out, I will come and get supper 

He looked at the clothes, clerical and 
severe in cut, with a grin. She turned her 
back upon him and went out. He helped 
himself to the brandy and hot water, and 
then commenced to strip off his things. All 
the time he laughed to himself softly. He 
remembered the Rev. Hiram Cressley well, 
and the idea of wearing his garments 
appealed to his sense of humour. 

He called out to her as soon as he was 
ready. She kept her face averted when she 
entered, but he could have sworn that he saw 
the corners of her mouth twitch. 

" If you would step into the sitting-room," 
she said, " I will prepare supper." 

He shuddered at the thought of the 

" I'm such a clumsy fellow," he said. 
"I shall break half your pretty things. 
Couldn't we have supper in here ? " 

" Just as you like," she said, struggling to 
hide her relief. 

He dragged the table into the middle of 
the room. 

" Come on," he said ; " I'm going to help." 

In the night the wind died away, and the 
storm passed down the Channel, leaving 
behind a piteous trail of disasters, small and 
large. John Garland opened his window, and 
looked out with a little exclamation of amaze 
ment. The sky was a soft deep blue ; the 
sunshine lay everywhere upon the picturesque 
village, with its red roofs and grey cottages, 
its background of hills and rolling moors. 
From the little garden below, all ablaze with 
colour, came sweet rushes of perfume — of 
lavender, of roses and pinks, all dashed and 
drooping with their burden of raindrops, 
glittering like diamonds in the sunshine. 
Garland drank it all in with delight. 

" England at last ! " he murmured, as he 
began to prepare for his ablutions. " Lord, 
what a doll's house this is ! I feel as though 
I were going through the floor." 

He dressed rapidly and hurried into the 
garden. Miss Cressley was there, busy tying 
up some of her dashed flowers. She started 
a little at his hearty greeting, and avoided his 
eyes. All night long her conscience had 
been troubling her. The memory of that 
supper was like a delightful scourge. She 
had been much too friendly. She had 
quite forgotten the impropriety of the 
whole thing,rAnidryl]^d Jaughed and talked 



almost like a girl again. With the morning 
reflection had come — reflection like a cold 
douche. And with it other things ! The 
perfume of the flowers, the soft west wind, 
the aftermath, perhaps, of the joyous evening, 
were creeping into her blood. Had she 
done anything so desperately wrong after all ? 
It was the vicar himself who had sent this 
man to her. As she well knew, every cottage 
in the village was full. Still, her cheeks went 
furiously red at the sound of his voice. 

" Why ! " he exclaimed, " forgive me ! 
Good morning ! " 

Her eyes questioned him. 

44 You look different, somehow," he 
explained. 4< Forgive my noticing it. I've 
been so long in a world where manners don't 
count, that I've forgotten mine." 

Her cheeks burned. She could not remain 
unconscious of what he meant. She had 
arranged her hair differently — she was tired 
of the old way — and her white dress was 
certainly her most becoming one. The cluster 
of lilac, too, which she had drawn through her 
waistband — it was so seldom that it pleased 
her to wear flowers ! 

44 Won't you come in to breakfast ? " she 
said, shyly. 

44 Breakfast ! Hurrah ! " he answered. 
44 I'm afraid I'm eating you out of house 
and home, Miss Cressley." 

She led the way into the sitting-room, 
which seemed to him more than ever like a 
chamber in a doll's house. He sat very 
gingerly upon his chair, and was afraid even 
to move his legs. The moment the meal 
was over he escaped into the garden and 
produced a pipe. 

" I'm off to the village," he announced, 
44 to see some of the people. Won't you 
come ? " 

44 Thank you," she answered, " I have 
things to do in the house." 

" I'll do the marketing," he announced. 
" I'll send some things up for dinner." 

44 It is not in the least necessary," she 
declared, with her chin in the air. 

He laughed in her face. 

44 Necessary or not," he declared, " either 
I do the marketing or I dine at the inn." 

He was an impossible person to argue 
with— so big and strong and forceful. The 
things he said seemed somehow right because 
he said them. She gave in, and the magni- 
tude of his purchases amazed her. He 
brought them up himself, wearing a ready- 
made suit of fisherman's clothes, and carrying 
the clerical garments in which he had started 
the day in a parcel under his arm. He took 

not the slightest notice of her protests, and 
he spent the next hour between the kitchen 
and the garden, strolling about with his hands 
in his pockets and an air of being absolutely 
at home. 

Three days passed — four. As yet he had 
not even alluded to his possible departure. 
At first she had wondered, had been gently 
troubled as to what the villagers might be 
saying about her entertainment of this good- 
humoured, easy-going giant. Gradually the 
place was being emptied of its unusual 
crowds. Surely, she thought, he must speak 
soon of his departure ! And, with a sudden 
start of mingled shame and alarm, she realized 
that she dreaded the very thought of his 

She fled into her room and locked the 
door. With blurred eyes and beating heart 
she looked out seawards and fought against 
this folly — this folly which seemed to her so 
egregious, so unmaidenly. For ten years — 
ever since her father's death — she had lived 
there alone a life of prim and delicate orderli- 
ness, quietly useful to many people — a life, it 
seemed to her now, colourless, flat, impos- 
sible. She looked in the glass. Yes, she was 
a young woman still ! Her cheeks were still 
pink, her eyes bright, her hair soft and full. 
With trembling fingers she took it down, 
rearranged it more after the fashion of her 
youthful days, and pinned a ribbon around her 
throat — ribbon of the colour which matched 
her eyes. After all, she was a woman. She 
had not sought this thing — it had come 
unbidden, undesired, she told herself, breath- 
lessly. She had a right to do what she was 
doing. Nevertheless, her cheeks were hot 
with shame when she saw him again. 

He was standing in the garden, reading a 
telegram, with a frown upon his face. She 
went out to him shyly, and he looked at her 
for a moment in amazement — as one might 
look at a ghost. 

44 Why — why, what have you done to your- 
self?" he exclaimed. 44 You grow younger 
every day ! If only I could do the same/' 
he continued, with a twinkle in his eyes, 
" you might remember the farmer's son as 
well as I remember the minister's daughter ! " 

She started. Then a wave of recollection 
came to her. There had always seemed 
something familiar about his tone and 

44 Why," she gasped, 44 you are John Gar- 
land — John who ran away from home ! " 

He smiled. 

" I kissed you ftpf^ Mary," he said, " up 

th tAtFat? "OF MICHIGAN 




She blushed furiously. 

" I do not remember it," she said, men 
daciously — a statement which was scarcely 
likely to be true, considering that it was 
the only embrace to which she had ever 

" I'd like " he began, and stopped. 

She was stooping over her roses, 

" You have been away a long time, 1 ' she 
said, softly. 

"A long time/ 1 he repeated. "Every- 
one seems to be dead and gone, I am 
afraid I shall find the old country a lonely 

" Luncheon is 

ready, "she said, "Shall 
we go in?" 

Afterwards he pro- 
duced the telegram. 

"This afternoon, 1 ' 
he said, calmly, " I 
must go." 

She caught at her 
breath, She could not 
keep the frightened 
look from her eyes, 
but she was able to 
control her tone, 

"Isn't it a little 
sudden ? " she asked. 

He nodded 

"I'm a man of 
affairs now, 11 he said, 
"and Vm wanted." 

She saw him off. 
She scarcely heard his 
farewell words. Every 
faculty she possessed 
was devoted to the 
desperate effort of pre- 
serving her secret. She 
saw him go, felt the 
touch of his fingers, 
heard the sound of 
his kindly voice, and 
turned away a little 
abruptly, just in time 
to hide the blinding 
tears. Then she walked 
back to her cottage, 
seeing no one, walk: 
ing like one stumbling 
through a dream. It 
was very quiet, very 
peaceful, there. The 
smell of tobacco still 
lingered about her 
tiny hall, There was 
nothing else. Her knees shook as she fled 
up the stairs to her room, 

Tragedy that year came not only from the 
sea, but from the land, to the little village of 
Paige th. Dinneford's bank failed in the 
neighbouring town, and half the village lost 
their savings. Mary Cressley lost more. She 
lost everything. When the winter came, and 
the worst was known, she found herself face 
to face with ruin. 

She went to her landlord, a red- faced , 
sporting solicitor of bibulous habits. She 
had kno m |-,^f£|^ ,t,pr^|^.jhated him. 



He had been expecting her visit, and received 
her a little grimly in his bare, untidy office. 

He interrupted her timid explanations. 

44 I know all about it, Mary Cressley," he 
said. " Your money is lost— Dinneford's will 
never pay a farthing — and you can't pay 
your rent, eh?" 

" Not just yet," she admitted. 

14 Not just yet or ever," he interrupted. 
" How should you pay it ? You've got 

44 1 was going to ask you to wait for a little 
time, and I would try and get some lodgers," 
she said. 

He laughed scornfully. 

44 You'd get no one before the summer," 
he said ; " and how do you suppose you're 
going to live and pay your rent out of 
boarders ? " 

" I can't think of anything else," she said, 

" I can," he answered. " You must do 
what you'd have done years ago if you'd been 
a sensible woman — marry me ! " 

She rose at once to her feet. 

"That," she declared, " is impossible." 

44 Is it ? " he answered. " Well, then, it's 
also impossible for me to wait for my rent. 
I'll give you a week." 

She went away without a word. For three 
days she hesitated. Then she sat down and 
wrote to John Garland. He had spoken 
truthfully when he said that he had become 
a man of affairs. His name was everywhere 
in the papers lately — the new Colonial 
millionaire, the owner of gold-mines and 
townships. Pargeth, it seemed, had enter- 
tained a Prince in disguise. 

She wrote the letter, and as soon as she 
had finished it she tore it up. Her head 
was buried in her arms. 

44 1 can't ! " she moaned. " I can't ! " 

Then legal documents came to terrify her. 
A man made an inventory of all she 
possessed — a man who handled her precious 
pieces of china as though they had been jam- 
pots, and even counted her household linen., 
The terror came again ! She thought of the 
workhouse — the cold, grey building on the 
hillside — its bare rooms, the long-drawn-out 
days of agony. Again she wrote to John 
Garland. This time she would have posted 
the letter, but Fate sent in her way a news- 
paper. She learned that he had purchased a 
great country estate, and announced his 
intention of marrying. The name of the 
lady was mentioned ■ — the daughter of a 
poverty-stricken peer, a reigning beauty for 
several seasons. 

Mary tore up her letter and went down to 
look at the sea. If only she had the courage! 

Her landlord, Peter Sewell, came once 
more— the night before the sale. He was 
flushed, and he smelt of drink. He talked 
in a loud voice, and he had a good deal to 
say about her folly. In the end she turned 
him out of the house. It was her last luxury, 
and she enjoyed it. 

There were barely a score of people at the 
sale. Amongst them was the vicar, flushed 
and anxious, with a little list in his hand 
which he kept consulting. When the 
auctioneer mounted his chair the vicar for 
a moment intervened. 

14 May I," he said, turning to face the few 
people, " say just one word ? You all know ' 
the painful circumstances under which this 
sale has become necessary. You all know 
very well our dear friend, Miss Mary Cressley. 
A few of us have subscribed to buy her furni- 
ture, and thus keep a home for her amongst 
us until the spring. Pargeth, unfortunately, 
is not a rich place, and the sum which we 
have been able to collect is, after all, very 
small. But I should like you all to know 
that when I bid, I bid for those who wish 
to return to this dear lady her few house- 
hold goods." 

There was a sympathetic murmur from the 
bystanders, a nod of approval from the 
auctioneer, and a growl from Sewell. A red- 
faced lady, who kept the inn, turned indig- 
nantly towards him. 

" What I say is, let the poor lady keep her 
bits and bobs of furniture ! " she exclaimed. 
44 Who'd be the better off for them, I should 
like to know ? And what's a matter of a bit 
of rent behind, eh ? Hasn't she lived here 
respectable, and paid her way, all her life ? 
Shame on them as is pressing her like this, 
I say." 

Sewell turned upon them all a little 

44 Look here," he said, 44 there's been 
enough of this sentimental rot. This is a 
business meeting. Get on with the sale, 
Cobb. If any of you think you're going to 
indulge in a little cheap charity, you're 
wrong. I'm here to buy myself. Now then, 

The sale proceeded. The vicar bid timidly 
for the first few lots. Sewell scornfully out- 
bid him and secured them. Then there was 
a commotion outside. A great motor-car 
had swung up to the door. A man, head 
and shou!de rs taller than most of them, 




" What the devil's the meaning of this ? " 
he exclaimed, looking around. 

The vicar recognised the new-comer and 
scented a friend. He ignored the expletive. 
In a few words he made the situation clear. 

44 Right ! " John Garland said, leaning his 
back against the wall. 44 You can leave the 
bidding to me, vicar. I'll take a hand in 

Sewell glared across the room. 

44 Cobb," he said, turning to the auctioneer, 
44 remember this is a cash affair. You 
can't take bids from strangers without the 

John Garland laughed dryly, though there 
was little sign of humour in his face. 

44 My name is John Garland," he said. 
"I've a thousand pounds in my pocket, a 
few hundred thousands in the bank, and a 
few millions behind that. Like to examine 
these notes, Mr. Auctioneer ? " he added, 
holding a packet out to him. 

The auctioneer waved them away. 

44 Quite satisfactory, Mr. Garland," he 

14 Go on with the sale," Sewell shouted. 
44 Confound you! I'll make you pay for 
your interference ! " 

No one else thought of bidding. Without 
turning a hair John Garland paid twenty 
pounds for a tea-pot and seventeen for a 
china ornament. Then came the piano. 
Sewell started it with an evil smile. 

44 Ten pounds ! " he said. 

44 Absurd !" Garland murmured. "Twenty !" 

"Thirty! "Sewell replied. 

44 Fifty ! " Garland bid. 

The room became breathlessly still. These 
were sums which belonged to fairyland. The 
last bid was Sewell's — one hundred and 
forty pounds. Garland paused for a moment 

44 Is that Mr. Sewell's bid ? " he asked. 

44 Yes, sir," the auctioneer answered, 

Garland leaned over and struck a few 
notes upon the piano — a miserable, worn-out 
affair, barely worth the amount of the first 
bid. He shook his head. 

44 1 don't believe Miss Cressley cares about 
this piano much," he said. 44 Half the notes 
seem to be gone, too. I think I'll let Mr. 
Sewell have it." 

There was an instant's breathless silence — 
then an angry exclamation from Sewell, 
drowned in a roar of laughter from 
the company. The auctioneer's hammer 

44 It's a rascally swindle ! " Sewell roared. 
" I sha'n't pay for it. Put it up again." 

John Garland smiled. 

44 1 certainly didn't pledge my word to buy 
everything," he said. 44 I dare say there'll be 
pickings for you, Mr. Sewell." 

Sewell flung himself out of the room, and 
the sale was over in half an hour. The 
vicar wrung John Garland's hand. 

44 God bless you, sir ! " he said. 44 You 
couldn't find a better use for your money 
than this, I promise you. She's the sweetest, 
most unselfish little lady that ever breathed." 

44 Glad to hear you say so, sir," Garland 
answered. "I'm going to marry her to- 

The vicar looked amazed. 

44 My dear Mr. Garland ! " he exclaimed. 

44 Quite correct," Garland continued. 44 I've 
a special licence here. I suppose you can 
arrange it some time to-morrow ? " 

The vicar took the document into his 

44 To-morrow is Christmas Eve," he said, 
"and they'll be busy decorating all day. But 
I dare say we can manage it," he added, with 
a smile. " By the by, is it a secret ? " 

44 You can tell anyone you like," John 
Garland answered, " except Miss Cressley, 
in case you should see her first." 

44 Doesn't she know ? " the vicar gasped. 

44 Not yet ! " John Garland answered. 

Late in the evening Mary Cressley came 
stealing back from the farm on the moors 
where she had spent most of the day. A 
fine snow was falling, and a cold wind blew 
through her thin clothes. She remembered 
that there would be no furniture nor any fire 
in her stripped home, and a sob came into 
her throat. Perhaps they would have left a 
rug or something — her clothes she was not 
sure about. Tears dimmed her eyes as she 
made her way down the little lane. It was 
her last home-coming. 

Below were the lights of the village — 
cheerful enough — the ringers were practising 
a Christmas peal, the sound of the bells came 
with extraordinary distinctness through the 
clear air. Then she turned the corner and 
gave a little start of surprise. There were 
lights in her own cottage. Some neighbours 
must be there ! 

She walked more slowly. When she 
reached the gate she peered in, and her 
heart almost stopped beating. The furniture 
was all there ! Nothing had been taken 
away ! 

She began to tremble. She scarcely knew 
how she pushed open the door. From the 

ki,chen WKM'fStlls?^ 00 ^ 8 - 




the parlour door was open. She peered in. 
A great figure rose from his knees, 

** It's this infernal grate again/' said a 
familiar voice. " I can't make the thing go. 
Never mind. Supper's ready in the kitchen," 

She swayed upon her feet. 

u Mr. Garland ! " she exclaimed. 

u May as well call me John," he answered, 
H as we're going to be married to-morrow." 

She fell into his arms. Her hat was 
crushed, and the little fair curls came 
tumbling over her ears. He took the pale 
face m his strong hands, and kissed her upon 
the lips. 

"Mary, you little fool/ 1 he said, "why 
didn't you send for me?" 

" I don't know," she murmured, w T eakly. 
" I thought you were going to be married," 

** So I am, to you, to-morrow," he answered. 
" IVe fixed it up with the vicar. Come in to 
supper and III tell you all about it" 

He led her out of the room, his arm 
around her waist She forgot that she had 
ever been wet and cold and lonely. For a 
moment she believed that she had died upon 
the moor and been taken up into heaven. 
And then he kissed her once more upon the 
lips, and she knew that she was on earth I 

by Google 

Original from 


T is impossible," writes the 
Hon, John Collier to The 
Strand Magazink, "to paint 
any picture about which ques- 
tions cannot be asked. One 
cannot explain everything in a 
picture as one can in a story. I endeavour to 
tell my story as plainly and as definitely as I 
can, but the limitations of painting prevent 
the explanation being exhaustive. It is true 
that people do ask more questions about my 
pictures than about ninny others ; but I 
think that is only because I treat subjects of 
general human interest. But the one thing I 
want to avoid is to be enigmatical, and yet 
the Press will take up the parrot cry of 
'problem J till they bid fair to ruin my reputa- 
ton as an artist* and to represent me as 
pandering to the vulgar curiosity of the 
*'I must protest against the term 'problem,' 

My pictures are the outcome of a theory that 
artists should preferably paint their own 
times, and also that the portrayal of emotion 
is a very important part of painting. Conse- 
quently I like to paint little dramas of every- 
day life, and to paint them as they really 
happen, with a studious avoidance of ex- 
aggeration and theatricality. And then they 
call me * sensational ' and talk drivel about 
* problems/ " 

One recalls the theory of the Chinaman 
who had a copy of "A Marriage of Con- 
venience " hung up in his house at Shanghai* 
His idea of the story was that wife No. 2 
had stripped and beaten wife No. 1 and 
donned her garments ! 

Here is what the artist himself says : — 
"The interpretation of the * Mar i age de 
Con ve nance ' is simple enough. The wed- 
ding-dress is laid out on the bed, so it is the 
eve of the wedding. The mother has come 


Copyright, 1907, by Pholunraphiscbe Ocsdiseh^ftOnoiri-al frOITl 




(From n PKotogrnph by Franz H.mfttaengL} 


in, and finds her daughter in despair, She 
tells her not to be a little fool. The mother 
is simply contemptuous. She knows her 
daughter will go through with it when it 
comes to the point. 

" I admit at once that there are other 
explanations possible (even that of the China- 

man •) ? but my point is that, far from wilfully 
setting a puzzle, I have done my best to 
make things clear. I think most people or 
average intelligence and with not too subtle 
minds would understand the picture as I 
have rnefitrtqifcial from 



explain everything in a picture as one can 
explain it in writing. On the other hand, 
the picture can make a more direct and vivid 
appeal to the emotions than can literature, 
.and it would be a great pity if artists were 
never to make this appeal. My aim is to 
make people feel, and sometimes to think, 
hut never to puzzle them. If 1 do puzzle 
them, it is against my wish and merely owing 
to the inevitable limitations of my art. 

" I want my point of view to be put to the 
public. So far it has been mostly misrepre- 
sented. There is one little consolation that 
1 give myself : I think it probable that people 

tions? It is only human nature, when one 
is perplexed how to explain a scene in a 
play, a poem, or a picture, to ask what the 
author himself intended to convey. In this 
sense problem pictures are centuries old — 
probably as old as painting itself. Many of 
the Venetian and Florentine masters painted 
problem pictures. Any picture in which 
there is a pronounced difference of opinion 
as to the meaning is a problem picture, 
Holbein's masterpiece, the Meyer Madonna, 
in Darmstadt, one of the finest pictures in 
the world, is also one of the most celebrated 
problem pictures. Whole volumes have been 


(Ry permission of the Committer of the Bristol Art Gallery*) 


ask most questions about the pictures that 
most interest them. The questions are 
generally silly, but I hope that the interest 
is genuine/' 

It must be confessed that the term 
"problem" as applied to a picture whose 
nexact significance does not at once leap to 
the eye is not very felicitous. 

Yet, find fault with the term as we will, 
what other is there which expresses a 
work of art in which the artist's meaning 
is capable of several different interpreta- 

written to propound, defend, or oppose a. 
given meaning ; the greatest minds in liurope, 
including Tieck, Schlegel, and Ruskin, have 
pronounced varied opinions, and yet the 
painter's meaning is no nearer elucidation 
than it was nearly four centuries ago. 

The Meyer Madonna in the old schloss of 
Darmstadt, belonging to the Grand Duke of 
Hesse, is one of the great sacred pictures of 
the world. It represents the Burgomaster of 
Basle, Jacob Mever, and his family kneeling 
in ador^^^t^^^^rgin Mary. 



For reasons already mentioned a number 
of suggestions, more or less improbable, have 
been made as to the inner meaning of the 
painting. It has been suggested that it is a 
Votive picture to commemorate the recovery 
of a sick child. This idea is carried still 
farther by others, who say that the infant in 
the Madonna's arms is the soul of a dead 
child, while a third interpretation is that it is 
the soul of the woman kneeling next to the 
Virgin, who is supposed to have recently 
died. Other explanations have been given, 
but they are all sentimental refinements of 
modern German criticism, first voiced by 
Tieck and Schlegel, which might not have 

mother, saying ' Farewell, 1 r ' "The simplest 
explanation," says Mr, Arthur B t Chamber- 
lain, *'and the most probable, is that it is 
merely an ordinary picture of Virgin and 
Child with the donors in adoration, and it is 
splendid enough in its simplicity without the 
need of any refined subtleties added to it by 
Teutonic sentimentalists/' 

Roughly, all allegorical pictures are 
problem pictures. They only differ in the 
degree with which the artist's meaning may 
be divined. One of the difficulties which 
face the spectator of such an admirable 
canvas as that of Mr. T. C. Gotch is to 
separate flesh and blood figures from 


(By permit ion of the Art Union of Loudon, n? t Si rand, Pub]*r^ q( the EngTavmj;,) 

occurred to them if they had studied the 
original instead of the copy. 

Rusk in was on the side of the sentimen- 
talists. He says {Comhill Magazine, i860): 
"The received tradition respecting the 
Holbein Madonna is beautiful, and I believe 
the interpretation to be true. A father and 
mother have prayed to her for the life of 
their sick child* She appears to them, her 
own Child in her arms, She puts down her 
Christ before them, takes their child into her 
arms instead ; it lies down upon her bosom 
and stretches its hands to its father and 

wagte 8 

spirits or mere hallucination — products: 
of reverie. Are the three figures in " The 
Awakening " actually seen by the young 
girl who sits apart, or is she merely look- 
ing into space and the figures introduced 
by the artist merely as an allegory of the 
three important stages of a woman's life? 
Or are they the product of a day-dream? 
Or, again, is the explanation to be found in 
the words of one critic, "In this beautiful 
canvas " (which hangs in Lhe Bristol Art 
Gallery) "we are shown the presiding angels 
of female 0tti6JhKad»f("^irthood, and maternity 




suddenly appearing to a maiden into whose 
heart human love has for the first time found 
a lodgment 35 ? 

When the late J. B. Burgess, R.A*, was 
sojourning in Spain the spectacle of the 
public tatter-writer suggested to his mind the 
subject of one of his most popular pictures. 
It occurred to him in the progress of the 
design to hint at a pleasant little drama, in 
which the scribe should figure as an inter- 
mediary; but he was quite unprepared for 
the universal interest and discussion which 
the finished canvas excited, "The Spanish 
Letter-Writer" is, in truth, a fair sample of 
the pleasing problem picture beloved of the 
public for its suggestion of romance in every- 
day life, and which is always present in one 
form or another at every exhibition at Bur- 

of Valladolid. One day there came to him a 
maiden— beauteous, but illiterate -request- 
ing him to indite for her a letter to a young 
soldier, Antonio, who had long paid her 
court. The correspondence went on 
famously until, in Antonio's absence, another 
suitor appeared, Inez had at last to choose 
between the two. Summoning the old 
scribe, her family gathered round to hear 
the result. Which would she choose? 
Would old Pedro advise ? The old man 
trembled, but refused- In the midst of the 
scene the second suitor appears, trusting that 
Inez will send Number One his conge, An 
old woman bends to whisper in Pedro's ear. 
Inez catches the fateful words : * Pell her, 
simpleton, that her absent lover is your own 
son ! J Tableau ! " 



lington House. Several descriptions of the 
" meaning 7 ' of the picture were published, 
Wilkie Collins wrote a short story around 
the incident, and a large number of letters 
reached the artist either asking him to tell 
his correspondents what the young woman 
was doing or about to do, or offering him 
their own versions of the "story." One of 
these latter was considered so ingenious an 
"explanation" of his work that Burgess good- 
hum ooredly adopted it in lieu of his own, 
which he confessed was "rather vague" : — 
'* Old Pedro Ricote was the public scribe 


As to vagueness, either in intention or 
title, a great critic has told us that " all in- 
spiration is vague ; when it is definite the 
Divine afflatus becomes a mere vulgar 
piping." Of "The Room with the Secret 
Door" the artist writes: " I purposely left 
the title a little vague, as by so doing the 
interest is heightened and people can make 
their own story and give their own explana- 
tion," and consequently many versions of the 
scene depicted appeared, 

"The scene of the picture which I called 
( The Room QrtlillftkTlTft»et Pool/" con- 





/'/' A^H^ MA' 


BVv A ™ 

p ■' 

Htkck J r 1 "^ ulshr^pf 

' 4 

^* % 

. iii\ *-X? 

1 1 

ill ! -®,M 


■ • |i u | 1 ri . 

r f ll 1 1 ■ 

^■tf ML r 1 

■ ft 

M' ff ■ V 

• 1 III 1 I 


^Ul ' ^ 





(By courtesy of Messrs, Geo. Hell & Sous,.) 

bv W. L W1NDUS. 

tinues the painter, "is a fine old house in the 
Midlands — built in the time of James L It 
is a rabbit-warren of a place — quite honey- 
combed with secret passages — -and in the 
thickness of the walls arc, or were when I 
was there, at least two secret chambers, used 
in the troublous times of the Civil Wars by 
fugitives in hiding. Between two of my 
visits there one of these rooms was opened 
out — and I have myself slept in it — it Is a 
good-sized chamber, about thirteen feet by 
twelve feet Still another room, concealed 

in the wall behind the great fireplace in the 
hall which I have painted, is known to exist, 
but it has not been explored. 

41 Although anyone may interpret the 
picture as they choose, yet," says Miss 
MacGregor, " I may state that Cromwell's 
Ironsides are seen through the windows to 
be approaching the house. They will search 
it from rafter to cellar to find the Cavalier 
who is hidden behind the wainscot. The 
lady of th: mansion, just risen from supper, 

an ^HPrtreR5lwdf WlCTfflS^J™ the iTldividual 


r 9 g 


(Hy permission of the Artist,) 

liv W. V. FRITH, k.A. 

whom she has concealed, is nerving herself 
up to parry the questions which she knows 
will be forthcoming," 

It is doubtful if many so-called problem 
pictures evoked more interest than that of the 
pre-Raphaelite painter, W. L. Windus, entitled 
"Too I^ate." When it was first publicly 
exhibited one cry went up, "What did it 
mean? Was it mother and daughter? Was 
it lover and mistress ? Was it husband and 
wife? Was the little girl their child? Had 
the man come back to marry the woman ? 
Had the woman returned to marry the man, 

only to find him married to another? Why 
was it too late?" Then the artist himself 
came forward, or someone on his behalf, 
to say that he had endeavoured to represent 
"a poor girl in the last stage of consump- 
tion, whose lover had gone away, to return 
at last, led by a little child, when it was 
4 too late/" 

Similarly, Mr. Frith, R.A., had no sooner 
shown his "The Intercepted Letter" than 
he became a target for the curious inter 
rogations of the curious. One would have 

lhoUBh Mfeteaffr dttWHKM here fairly 

2 00 


simple ; yet not so simple as to prevent 
numerous differing constructions to be put 
upon it. To show that this was really the 
case, a wag of the day, supposed to be the 
painter's friend, Mark Lemon, drew up the 
following alternative dramatis persona of 
"The Intercepted Letter/' by William Powell 
Frith, Esq., R.A. : — 


Thk Lady, 
Wife : | Willing 10 her Parents. 

Swrci heart : I Writing tu another Man. 
Ini:i]id : Receiving Ksttr>rti->n.Hc Physician's Hill. 
Fjilt LUipim : Receiving K*[...nion.iH" SolkUur s Bill 
Sister ; Trying lo save ber brother. 

The Gen'tlfman. 
Husband i V Writing lo his Parents.. 
Luver : /Writing to another W r om;in. 
PJiysician : Endeavouring to obtain payment of Extortionate 

Solicitor : Endeavouring to obtain jKiymcni of Extortionate Hill. 
Brother ; Trying tu save Sister. 

Many of my readers may remember the 
stir caused by Mr. Yeames's picture, 
'* Defendant and Counsel/ 1 some do^en 
years ago. So widespread was the interest 
it excited that it was bought by the pro- 
prietors of the Graphic newspaper, who (in 
the words of the artist) " offered a prize to 
their readers for the best explanation of the 
subject of the picture, appointing me lo 
award it, which I did, after reading many 
letters." Some or these explanations were 
very far-fetched indeed, one correspondent 
giving it as his opinion that the woman had 

committed murder and had involuntarily 
betrayed her crime to counsel 1 Lawyers 
took the matter up and wrote letteis to the 
papers, showing ihe impossibility of such a 
scene taking place, as silk and stuff gowns 
men do not confer in a clients presence. 

11 I beg to say," Mr. Yeames now writes 
us, " that the scene of my picture of 
* Defendant and Counsel" is supposed to 
take place in one of the consulting -rooms 
attached to a court of law, where counsel 
and clients meet at intervals to discuss how 
the case should he carried on. 

"My only idea," he continues, "when 
painting the picture was to depict the 
eagerness of counsel to obtain from the 
lady defendant information on a point on 
which the defence depended, and the un- 
willingness of the lady to enlighten them, 
lest by doing so she should compromise a 
friend of hers." 

Thus we see the force of Mr, Colliers 
contention, that a painter paints as experience 
and imagination suggest, but that ** the 
limitations of painting prevent the ex 
planation being exhaustive." The proper 
course is to select the most plausible nnd 
impressive solution, and forthwith to present 
the same to the artist, who may be just 
as grateful for such an interpretation as 
anyone else. 


<|ty permission of the Proprietors 

ldWnsrnT- yeames, r.a. 



ISS LEIGH was the admira- 
tion of three parishes. Not 
because of her beauty. Ilsley, 
Wepley, and Norton Under- 
wood are too respectable to 
admire that. She was indeed 
handsome — opulently handsome ; but, as my 
aunt has always insisted, you do not notice 
that in a thoroughly good girl. 

The eldest daughter who is a mother to 
her brothers and sisters is traditionally and 
justly honoured of women and men. In 
Ilsley (whereof her father is rector), in 
Wepley, and in Norton Underwood you 
could not speak of Miss Leigh without 
hearing how admirable a mother she made. 

Ilsley rectory is set in a pleasant land, a 
land of orchard-clad hills and dark meadows, 
of rich red earth. On a day of splendid 
summer, when the hot air was laden with the 
breath of honeysuckle and meadow-sweet, 
Miss Leigh came briskly — she was always 
brisk — across the broad mead. The sound 
of whistling assailed her. As a mother, Miss 
Leigh disapproved of whistling. Also the 
tune was undesirably flippant : — 

Of all the girls that are so smart 
There's none like pretty Sally ; 

She is the darling of my heart, 
And she lives in our alley. 

Crossing the stile into Hilder's five-acre, 
Miss Leigh beheld the musician. In the 
shade of the hedge he sat surveying three 
or four men who laboured at an excavation. 
He was in his shirt-sleeves, which and the 
rc:t of him were much smeared with red 
earth. He ceased to whistle, and drank 
largely from a mug. 

Miss Leigh passed by with reproof in her 

It was thrown away. The musician, sighing 
satisfaction over his empty mug, observed her 
energy with awe ; but he quite failed to per- 
ceive that she disapproved of him. Then he 
forgot all about her and entered his excava- 
tion and joined in the work. A large 
rounded stone was thrown up. He yelled a 
halt to his labourers ; he sat down on the 
edge of the trench and contemplated with joy 
that drum of sandstone, for on it spirals and 
the chevron pattern and a human face were 
rudely graven. 

In this enthusiastic person you behold Mr. 
Jerome Kemp, Fellow of All Saints' College, 

VqLjuum.— 26. 

Oxford, known to a few as an archaeologist 
and to more as number three in two winning 
Oxford crews. His interest in excavation is 
said by the sneering to be hereditary, for his 
grandfather was a navvy. But he was a navvy 
in the railway boom of the 'forties, and swiftly 
became a contractor and amassed much 
money. This was increased in the next 
generation, and passing to Jerome Kemp 
enabled him to devote himself to archaeology, 
a pursuit in which bread and butter are 
difficultly obtained. 

Now Jerome Kemp, coming from Oxford 
to excavate the long barrows of Midshire, 
bore with him letters of introduction to the 
clergy of the district. Well content with the 
sandstone drum as a result for his first day's 
labour, he made an end early. Cleansed 
and decently clothed he betook himself to 
Ilsley rectory. He knew nothing of the 
motherly daughter. The rector, who is not 
only human, but a scholar and a little of an 
archceologist, made him very welcome, and 
the two talked Oxford and the Stone Age 
with delight. The motherly daughter was 
still out. But as the talk grew quicker, and 
44 Hissarlik " and 44 Gaoidheal " and " mesa- 
ticephalic " and u non- Aryan " resounded 
across the study, a dainty face looked in at 
the window and a low voice said, 44 Father, 
have you forgotten Mrs. Binks ? " 

44 Bless my soul ! " The rector started up. 
44 Entirely, entirely. Pray, Mr. Kemp, let my 
little girl give you a cup of tea. If my 
eldest daughter were here now — she is really 
the house-mother — but — well — Nora, this is 
Mr. Kemp, the distinguished archaeologist." 

Mr. Kemp heard a very shy 44 How do you 
do ? " and, as he bowed, saw dark brown eyes 
in the dainty face and a lissom form below. 
Then he was walking beside it to the drawing- 
room while the rector fled to the sick-bed 
of Mrs. Binks. In the drawing-room they 
sat stiffly, and Kemp tried to make conversa- 
tion. He was very badly assisted. Nora 
said 44 Yes " and u No," and looked at her lap. 

Through a moment of silence Kemp eyed 
her critically. 4t Shall I also remember a 
Mrs. Binks ? " he asked. 

Nora looked up swiftly, blushing, undecided 
whether to stammer excuses or let him go. 
Jerry Kemp is no more beautiful than any 
other clean-limbed man cf twelve stone, but 
his smile has conquered the Christian Cretan 



t p 


and the Scotch shepherd. That smile now 
met Nora. 

"Would you mind awfully having tea in 
the garden ? " said Nora. Kemp sprang up, 
41 The children will all be there," said Nora, 

" I'm very well behaved/' said Kemp. 

Norn was i>ersuaded to smile. ** Vou see, 
I promised them id have tea with them, 
and I hair breaking promises to children." 

Knnp liHtkrd down gravely at the dainty, 
iiihiiM-nL Incr, H Ii'» brutal," he said . 

Nuni wrtit lightly out by the window, and 

at once two small 
persons embraced 
her skirts, crying, 
" Noiiy, have you 
got rid of the 
man ? w ' 

" Oh, hush ! " 
cried Nora, far too 
late, and turned 
blushing deliri- 
ously to Kemp, 
"Please don't 
mind." Kemp 
laughed, so Nora 
laughed too. 
"These terrible 
people are Gilbert 
and Molly, Mr, 

Two little brown 
hands were thrust 
out, and, as he 
took them, S1 I 
may have some 
tea, mayn't I ? n 
said Kemp. 

The frank eyes 

of two flushed little 

faces examined 

the archaeologist critically. " We 

should like you to, please," said 


So four happy people went off 

through the garden — that garden 

of old-world flowers, roses and 

stocks and cloves. Round the 

sweet-brier hedge they came, and 

down to the live turf of 'the lawn; they saw 

the river below, silver and black in broken 

ight. The ten table was set by the grey 

trunks of two noble beeches. Kemp dropped 

down to a long chair and gave himself up 

lu delight. 

A very correct young gentleman, black- 
n tilted, Kton-cullaied, and also plump and fair, 
came over the lawn. He was presented to 
Kemp as Wilfrid, and was extremely old in 
manner. He looked severely at Gilbert. 
kh Mabel told you not to wear a flannel shirt 
in the afternoon, Gilbert," said he, conscious 
of virtue and starch, 

Gilbert, comfortable in a limp shirt un- 
buttoned at his small neck, wriggled. " Mabel 
tells me such a lot of tings," he remarked. 

" Vou ought to listen/' said Wilfrid, and 
directed his stare to Nora, His smaller sister, 
Molly, looked battle at him. After a little 

e of our 



" You needn't," Molly snapped. 

41 It's very good of you to put us all right, 
Wilfrid," said Nora, gently, and turned from 
the virtuous child to Kemp. " Where did you 
say you had been excavating, Mr. Kemp?" 

"One of the long burrows in the field they 
call Hilder's five-acre," 

" Oo ! Where ve fairies are!" Gilbert 

Wilfrid gave a superior laugh. " lies the 
baby, you know," he explained to Kemp. 
11 He believes in fairies." 

"I know vere are fairies," said Gilbert, 
placidly. " Aren't vere, Nony ? " 

Nora evaded the question. u Did you 
find any fairies in the barrow, Mr. Kemp?" 

"I found what they'd left" 

(i Oo! Tell, tell!" Gilbert cried, and 
Molly, "Please tell t " Kemp consulted 
Noras eyes. 

11 We all like stories," said Nora, 

So Kemp began to talk of what was in the 
long barrows and of the folk who built them. 
He told of a strange England, an England all 
forest and marsh, and he* peopled it with 

little men and women whose weapons and 
tools were all of bronze, who had a thousand 
strange customs. 

Eager, round eyed, the children listened, 
and Nora. But Wilfrid remained superior 
and ate. In the midst of her joy Molly was 
heard to murmur, " Pigs ! " 

Two women were coining briskly down the 
lawn, Kemp's story was suddenly cut off, 
and he arose to be presented to " my sister 
Mabel— Miss Leigh." He had no more 
than time to observe that Miss Leigh was 
royally handsome before she was presenting 
him to her companion, Mrs. Alcester, a 
woman of strenuous aspect. " I am sorry I 
was not at home when you called, Mr. 
Kemp/' said Miss Ixigh. " But this is not 
one of my days." She turned to her family. 
" Gilbert ! I thought I told you not to wear 
those clothes in the afternoon. Go to the 
nursery at once, and stay there till bedtime." 

" I told you so," said Wilfrid, with satis- 

Gilbert — a very miserable little Gilbert- 
arose and slunk off. Molly sprang up, crying, 
"All right, Gil, I'll come, too." 

TURNED lt> Hfctt >AM1LV. 'UluWsVAlJi 





"You will do nothing of the kind," said 
Miss Leigh. " Stay where you are." 

Molly plumped down with a grimace. 

" It's my fault, really, Mabel," said Nora. 
" I let him." 

" I want to speak to you, Nora," said 
Miss Leigh, severely, and led her sister 
away up the lawn. 

Kemp looked after her with grave eyes. 

" Miss Leigh is a perfect mother to them 
all," said Mrs. Alcester. 

" Oh, really ! " said Kemp. 

Miss Leigh came back alone. It was 
possibly her indications that she did not 
want him which made Kemp linger. He 
was punished. For Mrs. Alcester discovered 
that his homeward way was the same as hers, 
and walked with him. 

She found him on all topics extremely 
monosyllabic. She was not much troubled. 
She proceeded to give him a familiar history 
of all the inhabitants of Ilsley, with special 
references to the Leighs. Miss Leigh, she 
remarked, was the mother of the whole 
family. Kemp began to find that statement 
monotonous. " Miss Leigh is by nature a 
most motherly woman," Mrs. Alcester con- 
tinued. " A remarkable power over children. 
And her mother died when the little ones 
were quite babies." 

" Oh, I see why the mother died," said 
Kemp, wearily. 

"Mr. Kemp!" Mrs. Alcester gasped. 

"To give her daughter an opportunity," 
Kemp explained. 

They parted coldly. 

Thereafter Kemp spent, as duty bade, 
many shining hours in opening the long 
barrows. He dined at the rectory, and dis- 
cussed his work with the rector till the moon 
was high. Miss Leigh treated the discussion 
with matronly contempt, and early suggested 
that Nora should go to bed. She conveyed 
to Kemp the impression that she considered 
archaeology indecent. 

But archaeology did not occupy all his 
time. He has always had a comfortable 
way of seasoning business with pleasure, and 
finding that the Lode was a practicable river 
he wrote to Oxford for a Canadian canoe, 
and therein, with many cushions, he spent 
in lazy, happy meditation the ends ©f the 

One glorious day, when a breeze tempered 
the sun's glare and set light and shadow 
dancing on the water, Jerry Kemp brought 
his canoe slowly down the slow stream abreast 
of the rectory lawn. Nora sat in the shade 
reading, and looked up at the sound of the 

paddle and smiled. She was a delectable 
form in cool pale green. 

" May I land ? " said Kemp. 

11 Please." 

Nora made room for his chair at her side. 
The large book she had been reading was put 
down on the grass. Kemp saw the familiar 
title, " British Archaeology, Vol. I. : The 
Palaeolithic Age," and his eyebrows lifted 
slightly, and he smiled at her. 

Nora's cheeks darkened. " I don't know 
anything about it at all," she confessed, "but 
I think it's awfully interesting. Father says 
this is the best book. But you've written 
some yourself, haven't you ? " 

Kemp found the innocent compliment very 
agreeable. Then, as he thought of his own 
severely learned monographs, he shrugged his 

" Mine are very technical," he said. 

Nora considered him with frank, serious 
eyes. "You know- when you were talking 
to the children, when you were talking to 
father, you made me ashamed of how much I 
don't know. I'm awfully, awfully ignorant." 

Kemp did not laugh. "And I'm ashamed 
of how much I don't know — how little I've 
learnt with my chances. But you know a 
whole world of things that I don't. Where 
did you learn your way with the children ? " 

Nora's eyes smiled. "Aren't they dear?" 
she said, softly. " But you made them like 
you at once." 

" You vouched for me," said Kemp. He 
sat up, his elbows on his knees, his chin in 
his hands, and became very serious. " It's 
good to learn things, and I suppose you 
can't learn anything true that isn't useful, but 
better than all that is the heart that's glad of 
life" — he looked up at Norah — "just glad of 

They were both silent for a while. Then 
Nora turned and looked into his eyes. "It 
is good, isn't it?" she said. Kemp did not 
speak, and after a moment Nora looked 
away, but his eyes still dwelt on her. 

Miss Leigh's royal voice was heard calling, 
" Nora ! Nora ! " 

Nora turned quickly to Kemp : " Won't 
you come in ? " 

But Kemp started up. "No; I — I must 
go," he said, in some confusion. He felt 
that Miss Leigh would be utterly discordant. 

So Nora watched him re-embark, and 
picked up her " British Archaeology " and 
went in to her motherly sister. 

" Pray, is Mr. Kemp in the habit of calling 
on you, Norft^jna^id Miss Leigh. 

"& T Rivtfefaf% t Meflra ashore to - da y-" 



M Indeed ! n Miss Leigh's tone was now 
icy. She took Nora's book and sneered as 
she read the title. Ui British Archaeology/ 
Really ! I suppose you thought he would 
be attracted if he found you reading this." 

Nora quivered as if she had been struck, 
and her cheeks flamed hot " I didn't," she 
gasped ; "oh, I didn't/' 

"You have been most unmaidenly," said 
Miss Leigh. 

* l Mabel ! " It was a cry like a child's in pain. 

" I have no more to say, 11 said Miss Leigh, 
and turned away. 

Nora hurried, trembling and biting her lip, 
to her own room. A moment before she 
had felt the dawn of the great joy of life. 
Motherly ingenuity could have dealt no 
crueller blow than this. " Unmaidenly " — 
to a man who loved her. The worst crime 
against womanhood- Nora was hot with 
shame and the tears would not come. 

Miss Leigh took pride in arranging people's 

In the next few days Kemp was not seen 
at the rectory, but the rector visited his 
excavations more than once, and dined with 
him at his inn. With this rare treasure, 
an intellectual equal, ready at hand, the 
rector was stimulated and became almost 
gay- In the lazy hours of the late afternoon 
Kemp paddled his canoe. More than once 
he had the delight of seeing Miss Leigh, 
She was sculling vigorously behind a large, 
handsome, ruddy man, with the virtuous 
Wilfrid steering. Their style made Kemp 
feel hot 

lie found the explanation of this boat-load 
on a bill at his inn, which displayed the 
programme of Ilsley Regatta. *' Ladies' and 
Gentlemen's Double Sculls " was one of the 
races. While Kemp considered it gravely 
his conversational landlord sidled up. (l I 
don't know if as you're a rowing man, sir?" 
said the landlord. Kemp, Oxford Blue of 
two winning race?, realized i:he limits of fame 
and murip^^^jn^^p. - Very 



good little regatta we do 'ave, sir," said the 
landlord, complacently. " This, now — this 
is the great regatta, as you might say, when 
the gentry 'ave their fun. The men's club 
'ave their regatta later, and separate, which I 
do 'old is fitting." He went on to talk of 
the races: how the Senior Fours would go to 
the Upton House Club — "which is one 
family as you might say, what with brothers- 
in-law " — how Wepley — " which is young 
gentlemen as do come there for week-ends " 
— might hope for the Senior and Junior 
Pairs. " ' Ladies' and Gentlemen's Double 
Sculls,' now, that'll be for Miss Leigh and 
young Mr. Wallis. That's a cert., as folks 
say, sir. They won't 'ave no one in against 
'em, they won't, not Miss Leigh." He con- 
tinued conscientiously finding winners for all 
the host of events, punting, dongola races, 
boy and girl sculling, which in the prodigal 
way of small regattas Ilsley provided. 

Then Kemp went upstairs and wrote a 
minutely technical letter to an Oxford boat- 

The next day his canoe was launched soon 
after lunch. He paddled up-stream placidly 
— most often with only one hand. " Jerry, 
now," said a friend once, " Jerry just wobbles 
a canoe round a corner — but it does 
go round the corner," and the description 
describes Kemp in other things. 

He landed on the rectory lawn without 
invitation. It was not Nora but Miss Leigh 
who sat, a picturesque figure in the shade. 
With her was her large and handsome com- 
panion of the double-sculler. 

Miss Leigh, beholding Kemp, manifested 
surprise. Her greeting was hardly hospitable. 
Kemp said that he had called to see the 
rector. Miss Leigh explained that the rector 
was never in at that hour. Kemp said, 
blandly, that he would wait, and sitting down 
wore an air of great content. There was a 
prolonged pause. 

Miss Leigh (her manner was somewhat 
constrained) introduced him to her com- 
panion, Mr. Wallis. Kemp had nothing to 
say and no desire to say it. The other 
gentleman seemed to be in the same con- 
dition. There was another pause. 

Miss Leigh — she has always hated silence 
— she was probably feeling desperate — broke 
violently into speech. " You never use any- 
thing but that canoe, Mr. Kemp. Don't you 
scull at all ? " 

" I feel more at home in a canoe." 

"You should learn toscull,"said Miss Leigh. 

Kemp looked with lazy eyes at Wallis. 
11 Rowing man ? " he inquired. 

" Mr. Wallis rowed for his college at Cam- 
bridge," said Miss Leigh, with dignity, and 
Wallis looked foolish. 

"Really?" said Kemp. "Would you 
coach me, Wallis ? " 

" Spare you half an hour now and then/ 1 
Wallis grunted. 

Kemp settled himself more comfortably in 
his chair. "Ah, well, I don't think I'll 
trouble you," he remarked. 

Miss Leigh gave him a look of cold dis- 
pleasure and arose. "We must go," she 
announced, with emphasis, and called, 
" Wilfrid ! " 

Wilfrid appeared so swiftly that Kemp 
suspected him of eavesdropping. The three 
went off to the boat-house and embarked in 
the double-sculler. Kemp smiled at a bull- 

The bullfinch and he were quite happy 
together till the approach of Nora and the 
rector made one fly away and the other sit 
up. Nora's greeting was very shy. The 
rector began to talk archaeology. After 
much of that Kemp led the conversation 
gently towards the regatta. " I suppose Miss 
Nora is going in for the Ladies' and Gentle- 
men's Double Sculls ? " he asked, innocently. 

" No, indeed ! " said Nora. 

"Nora is very much of a stay-at-home," 
said the rector. " Very quiet Too quiet, I 
think, sometimes." He shook his white 
head at her. 

Kemp turned to Nora. " I've been hoping 
you'd go in with me," he said, bluntly. 

" Capital ! " the rector cried " Capital ! 
No doubt you rowed at Oxford, Mr. Kemp ? " 

" Yes, sir," said Kemp, over his shoulder. 
He was waiting to see Nora's eyes. 

They were lifted at last. " I will, if you 
would like," said Nora. For a moment 
Kemp and she were alone in the world. 

But the rector, good man, did not under- 
stand. He broke in again : " Capital ! 
Capital ! I am sure it would be good for 
you, Nora. And Mabel will be glad to have 
a race." Kemp again beheld the bullfinch. 
It appeared to wink. " Mabel was afraid no 
one would venture to go in against her," the 
rector explained. 

"Ah, really?" said the innocent Kemp. 
"Well, I've a sort of a boat coming, Miss 
Nora. I'll paddle it round at six to-morrow, 
if you could come then." That engage- 
ment was made. Kemp departed exultant. 

But he had not to deal with Miss Leigh. 
Nora met her motherly sister in the drawing- 
room before dinner, " Mabel, I'm going in 

for Bffl^^^lSMftl Kemp " 



" Indeed ! " Miss I^eigh seemed to expand, 
"I suppose you are not serious, Nora?" 
But obviously Nora was. "None of the 
county people know anything of Mr, Kemp. 
He is a mere casual acquaintance of ours. 
You must see how unbecoming it would be." 

" Father says it would be good for me to 
go in/' 

" Father does not understand these things. 
I am surprised at you, Nora, I told you 
that your behaviour to Mr, Kemp was most 
un maidenly," Miss Leigh, with a curious 

light in her fine eyes, waited to see how 
that hurt 

But now Nora was sure of herself 
" I don't think it is," she said, quietly. 

Miss Leigh's lips parted. This was revolt, 
u You will allow me to know best," she 
snapped, Nora shook her head. " The man 
is a mere nobody who has forced himself 
upon us, and you propose to show yourself 
in outrageous familiarity with him, Do you 
want to have everyone talking of your 
conduct ? " cried Miss Leigh, 






"You see," said Nora, quietly, "what I am 
to Mr. Kemp doesn't matter to anyone else." 

Miss Leigh grew crimson. This dreadful 
theory struck at the root of parochial 
righteousness. " If you have no sense of 
propriety," she declared, " I must have for 
you. I insist on your not rowing with Mr. 

" It's no use, Mabel ; I've promised," said 

Miss Leigh turned upon her sister an angry 
back. Soon the rector arrived ; but still, and 
all through dinner and after, Miss Leigh 
nursed her wrath and spoke to Nora only 
in short necessary phrases. She attempted 
no more argument. But when the rector 
went to his study she followed him. He was 
always easier to manage alone. 

So the rector had hardly found his place in 
Herodotus before Miss Leigh swept in upon 
him. He sighed, and reluctantly laid Hero- 
dotus down. " Father, I want you to forbid 
Nora rowing in this double-sculling race," 
said Miss Leigh, with great energy. 

The rector was surprised. " Why, my 
dear, you have no competitors," he remon- 
strated, gently. " I thought you would be 
glad of someone to row against." 

" Why should I ? " cried Miss Leigh. 

The rector remembered hearing someone 
say that few women could be sportsmen. 
" What is your objection to Nora's rowing?" 
he asked. 

" I object to her associating with this Mr. 
Kemp. He is a mere nobody, and " 

"He is a gentleman," said the rector, 

" None of the county people know him." 

The rector sighed. " None of them know 
anyone so interesting." 

"It will set everyone talking of Nora and 
coupling her name with his." 

The rector looked curiously at his 
daughter. " I am sure Nora will despise 
what vulgar people say." 

" Well, I must say," Miss Leigh cried, 
" I strongly disapprove of her intimacy with 
Mr. Kemp, and I think my wishes ought to 
be respected." 

" It is possible you are wrong, my dear," 
said the rector. 

Miss Leigh banged the door. 

So on the morrow Kemp found Nora 
waiting for him by the landing-stage. On 
that day and many others a white-clad crew 
went slipping along in a light double-sculler. 
Nora rowed bow behind Kemp, and the small 
Gilbert was coxswain. " Don't try to work 
hand," said Kemp; "try to work the right 

way." From time to time he sent scraps 
of opportune criticism over his shoulder. 
"You're lying much too far back at the 
finish. You must finish with me. Put your 
sculls in square. You're not dropping your 
hands at once." And Nora, tremendously 
serious, strove with humble zeal to amend. 
It was very pleasant, this instruction — and 
trying to obey. 

Kemp taught her to get her sculls in clean 
and get them out clean, to qpme slowly for- 
ward and begin and finish with him. It 
sufficed. She would not hinder; there was 
no need for her to help. The work of the 
boat he proposed to provide. 

One afternoon he found Nora waiting 
without Gilbert. " Will you land ? " she said, 
with her sedate little smile. "I want to 
talk." Kemp tied the boat up and stepped 
ashore and waited. "Under the trees," said 
Nora. So again they sat in the shade of 
the beeches. Nora turned a very grave face 
to him. " Mr. Kemp — at the regatta— when 
we race — do you very much want to win ?" 

Kemp smiled. " Well, don't you ? " 

" You see," said Nora, " you see, Mabel 
would be awfully hurt if she lost." 

Kemp's face hardened. "So you'd like 
to lose instead ? " 

" Do you mind ? " said Nora, timidly. 

Kemp drove his heel into the ground and 
looked at it. Then he flung back his head 
with a queer, half-angry, half-contemptuous 
laugh. " A man's a bit of a brute," he said. 
" I thought you'd like to beat her." 

" Indeed, I'm not like that," cried Nora. 

Kemp laughed again. " Oh, I see you're 
not. Well, shall we scratch ? " 

Nora looked down at the turf. " You 
know, if we did, Mabel would think we 
talked about going in just to tease her. 
Could we — could we row and she win? 
She'd like that." 

" You don't give her much of a character," 
said Kemp, with a grin. 

" Oh, indeed, I didn't mean anything 
horrid," cried Nora. " But, you see, Mabel 
has always been used to winning." 

" Very bad for her. All right, we'll let 
'em win ; but I may make 'em row hard, 
mayn't I ? " 

"Oh, yes," Nora laughed. She turned to 
Kemp and put an impulsive hand on his 
arm. " It's simply awfully good of you. I 
know a man always wants to win, doesn't he ? " 

Kemp looked into her eyes. " Yes. A 
man always wants to win," he said, slowly. 

Nora's hand fell, Nora turned away, 
blushing deeply. p f^l^^wf wa nt Gilbert," 



she said unsteadily, and rose, calling "Gilbert ! 
Gilbert ! " The small boy came. 

So for the Ladies' and Gentlemen's Double 
Sculls two crews entered, one of which was 
determined to win, the other determined to 
lose The arrangement is recommended as 
likely to minimize disappointment. 

Ilsley Regatta introduces you to a wide, 
straight reach of river bordered with meadow 
and lawn. There is a motley array of craft 
laden with enthusiastic spectators. The more 
exalted are entertained by Mrs. Alcester in 
her garden, wljere enthusiasm wilts like a 
rose in a hothouse. 

It fell to the Ladies' and Gentlemen's 
Double Sculls to be rowed in the hottest 
moments of the afternoon. The two crews 
paddled down to the start, turned, and sat 
sweltering. The umpire's launch let off a 
little steam ; the umpire— a hard-bitten face 
under a shabby straw hat— leant forward and 
made the familiar remarks. The word was 
given. The two boats were off. 

At once Miss Leigh and VVallis went 
ahead. Their jerky stroke, their lug at the 
beginning, got pace on the boat quickly. 
But in a few seconds Kemp drew level, and 
feeling Nora hold out the stroke behind him, 
hearing the rattle of the rowlocks as they 
locked up the finish together, knew that they 
might, if they chose, go clear away and win 
by thirty yards. It was not permitted. He 
drove his boat half a length ahead — those 
others should at least be made to race for 
their lives — and then he began to slack off. 
" Paddle ! Only Paddle ! " he grunted over 
his shoulder to Nora, and permitted himself 
to watch Miss Leigh and Wallis. They were 
red, they were panting, they laboured 
mightily, they looked exceedingly unhappy, 
but not one inch did they gain. Kemp became 
still more slack — as slack as he could be with 
any pretence of racing. But Nora — he felt 
Nora rowing with vigour. " Paddle ! Paddle ! 
Paddle ! " he muttered. Nora did not hear 
or did not heed. She drove each stroke hard 
through to the finish. They were close to 
the winning-post now. Miss Leigh was still 
a good half-length behind. A few seconds 
more and she would be beaten. 

Kemp carefully feathered under water with 
his right scull. 

He heard the horrified gasp of Gilbert, the 
small coxswain, as the way of the boat was 
checked with a jerk and the bow swung off 
to the bank. Miss Leigh and Wallis swept 
by. Kemp recovered himself and put in 
half-a-dozen of the hardest strokes of his life. 

Miss Leigh won by a quarter of a length. 


The two boats drifted on side by side. 
Miss Leigh, scarlet and breathless, looked 
at her rivals viciously. " Well rowed, Mr. 
Kemp ! " said she, with sarcastic emphasis, 
and laughed. The virtuous Wilfrid, her cox- 
swain, also laughed, and others. " I hope 
you're satisfied now, Nora," said Miss Leigh. 

Neither Nora nor Kemp answered. Kemp 
said sharply to Nora, " Ship your sculls. 
I'll take you up to the rectory." And then 
for a few minutes Nora might have seen some 
very pretty sculling. But her eyes were full 
of tears. 

When they came to the rectory lawn she 
landed and hurried in without a word. Kemp 
was left looking at Gilbert, the coxswain — an 
extremely serious little Gilbert. " Oh, was 
it my fault ? " said Gilbert, in a small, 
frightened voice. 

44 Not a bit, old man." 

" I did want to win, you know," said 
Gilbert, dolefully. 

" It was all my fault you lost," said Kemp. 
11 I'm sorry, Gilbert." 

" Oh — " Gilbert considered him gravely — 
"oh, I—" the brave little face brightened — 
44 1 don't mind really. Please don't care 
about it." 

44 You're a brick, Gilbert," said Kemp. 

The small boy laughed happily and ran off. 

Kemp, sculling back alone, passed Miss 
Leigh and Wallis and Wilfrid They were 
again amused at him. As he came up the 
regatta course between two races a number 
of spectators also smiled. There is little 
mercy in this world for the catchers of crabs. 

Two hours later Kemp came forth from 
his inn arrayed in other clothes. With a 
somewhat grim air of determination he 
tramped to the rectory. Nora was on the 
lawn with Gilbert and Molly. Nora started 
round at his step and he came close to her. 

They stared at each other. Neither he 
nor she had anything to say. 

Then Molly, a little woman of quick per- 
ceptions, cried : " I'll race you to the orchard, 
Gil ! " and the two children scampered away. 
Nora's cheeks were pink. 

44 I'm awfully, awfully sorry!" she broke 
out, turning to Kemp with a quick, impulsive 
movement. 44 It was simply horrid of Mabel." 

44 To jeer?" Kemp laughed. 4C Does it 
matter to you and me what anybody else 
says of us ? " 

Nora looked down at the ground and 
patted with a small foot at the daisies. 4< I 
was horrid, too. I made it awfully hard for 
you. I ought to have been lazy and helped 





It all seemed 
awfully that we 

"You didn't — much," Kemp smiled. 

Nora's brow wrinkled. il I know. I didn't 
think. I just went on rowing. It was my 
fault you had to catch that crab and look — 
and — and be— — " 

" Laughed at. Oh, what does it matter ? " 
cried Kemp. 

* l It does matter," said Nora, very seriously, 
"You know when we were racing I forgot 
all about letting Mabel win, and just 
rowed as hard as I could ! 
different then. 1 wanted 
shouldn't be beaten." 

" I'm sorry, then " 

" Oh, you did just what I asked, and it 
was splendid of you. And I don't care for 
myself one bit. I'm glad I didn't beat 
Mabel. But — but — but I'm sorry I made 
you lose." She looked into Kemp's eyes. 

" There's a lot of losing races in life," 
said Kemp, in a low voice. 

Nora's eyes fell. u PVaps I'd make you 
lose again/' she murmured, 

"You'd always make it awfully hard to 
lose. But if I caught crabs again— not on 
purpose— if we did lose sometimes " — he 

took her hands, but her eyes were hidden 
still. " Nora ! " 

She raised her eyes to his. Her lips 
curved in a smile. " Fm not afraid," said 

Through the silence came from the 
orchard gay child voices. 

Miss Leigh would wish you to know what 
she thought of it. 

Her father gave her the news. Miss Leigh 
stiffened in every line of her handsome form* 
"Indeed!" she said, disdainfully. "I sup- 
pose Mr. Kemp has heard that Nora has a 
little money," 

The rector frowned, "That is a charitable 
suspicion, Mabel. But Mr. Kemp is a 
wealthy man." 

11 1 was never told," cried Miss Leigh, 

The rector looked at her over his 
spectacles. " Why should you be ? " he 

" Of course, Nora knew all along ! " said 
Miss Leigh- 

by Google 

Original from 


By E. V. LUCAS. 

HE paper/' said the old 
gentleman, " has been care- 
fully planned to meet a long- 
felt want I have given 
immense thought to the 
matter. Look for yourself*" 
He handed me a copy, 
" Kut first," he said, " I ought, perhaps, to 
tell you how it originated* You must know 
that I am a doctor, and until recently, when I 
gave it up and entered upon the present 
scheme, I had a very extensive practice in a 
great Flat centre of London. Where there 
are fiats, as you may have observed, there 
are babies ; for flats are largely the homes of 
those delightful j people, rarely seen apart* 
whom we refer to always as young couples." 

The old gentleman's eyes glistened with 
goodwill to man as he said these words, 

"1 suppose," he continued, "I have had 
during the past ten years an average of three 
births a week, almost all in a square mile of 

mansions, and many of them, a great pro- 
portion of them, first children*" 

He glistened again. 

"Ah," he went on, "it is the Fust children 
that count ! Women are sweet creatures ; 
but the difference between a mother's 
interest in her first child and her second is 
almost indescribable/' 

He sighed. 

"And this," he said, "brings me to my 
point My point is that no matter what the 
ordinary person says, whether it is the father 
or the father in-law, the mother or the 
mother-in law, the nurse or the doctor, or 
anyone else, no matter who it is that speaks 
or what the superlatives that are employed, 
the baby is not admired sufficiently to phast 
the mother, There, sir, you have the kernel 
of the whole matter" 

I agreed. . 

" In my large praauc^ne continued, "I 
naturallyUtttV^bflTltlOf Wll6dilfft£^indeed, * 



was forced upon me daily, for with all my 
endeavours I also have constantly fallen short 
of what is expected of me ; and when the 
other day I retired, I determined to spend 

He pointed to the paper in my hand, 
which as yet I had had no opportunity to 

" Now, sir," he said, " you know the per- 

my leisure in doing what I could to make sistent fascination of print. You know that 


those poor, famished young mothers happier, in spite of all the myriad newspapers, daily 

I would, I said, invent some method of and weekly, that now assail our peace ; in 

praising their babies adequately, or, if not spite, too, of the fact that most of us are 

adequately— for that, of course, is impossible more or less, intimately acquainted with some- 

- more acceptably." one| ^HqE E^t^r-HtN^ i^l^HiW-.W^ th llim > indeed, 



as to be contemptuous ; none the less, 110 
sooner does a thing, however trite, get into 
print than we approach it with a certain feel- 
ing of reverence. Our national scepticism 
disappears. We worship/' 

I agreed. 

" Very well. If, I said to myself, these 
poor young mothers are really to be made 
happy by the praise of their babies, those 
praises must be in print. They must be 

pleasant impression of something a little more 
positive is not lacking, The work is uniformly so 
healthy that a long life may confidently l*e hoped for 
it. England cannot have too much of this kind of 

" There," said the doctor, M that is the sort 
of thing. Here is another, under the 
heading : — 

Erorn a young publishing firm named Lovebird, 


made public, distributed throughout the 
world. And that paper in your hand, the 
Babiei Reviav^ was the result." 

He took the paper again and opened it. 

11 1 have chosen," he said, " as a model 
the Aihentfum^ and by what I hope is a 
pardonable fancy I have likened the birth of 
a new child to the publication of a new book. 
listen ! " And he read as follows in a rich, 
sympathetic voice : — 


14 Gwendoline Frances Wilkinson," who has just 
been published by Mrs, Wilkinson, of 2j T Mi lkm 
Mansions, Bedford Park, is one of the most 
perfect works we ever remember to have seen- 
The style is simple but wholly effective, the utmost 
finish being given even to trifles. The key note ol 
the work is sweetness and placidity, although a 

whose offices are at 14, Devonshire Mansions, 
Holder 5 Green, comes a new work in two volumes, 
entitled ** The Lovebird Twins." Both volumes are 
nf a delicate pink with very soft edges, and both are 
extraordinarily interesting. Indeed, we find it irn 
possible to express any preference, so alike are they 
in incident and charm. Perhaps Vol. II. is a little 
more vigorous than Vol, L \ but then, on the other 
hand t Vol. I. is more reposeful than Vol. IL By a 
pleasant fancy a different name has been piven to 
each, Vol, L being known as '* Cyril" and Vol. II. 
as " Aubrey." What could be prettier? 

" I go in for variety, too. Here is another 
extract under the heading: — 


We have just been favoured with the rare privilege 
of a private view of a perfect picture entitled, il George 
Robert Brownson/' ihe woik of one Vkha promises to 



Rembrandt KuiliHn^S Hatteisea Park, As a 
firs: work her "George Hubert JJrownson " is 
Admirable. Indeed* we can detect no fault- The 
colouring is very deep and rich, and the mould- 
ing eMjuisite. The picture positively clamours 
for notice, 

" There," said the proud editor. "When 
I tell you that portraits also are given, you 
will agree with me that mothers have little to 

imagination, my dear sir; think of what ft 
must mean to Mrs, lovebird to see it. 
I venture to say that there will be no happier 
woman in Kngland to-morrow, which is the 
day of publication, except perhaps Mrs, 
Brownson and Mrs. Wilkinson. The hus- 
bands, too. Of course, it is the fashion for 
husbands to say sarcastic things about their 

III*'- !■!<_ t"l"Kh rO-lMVfcLY LLAMLURS KUh ISuU^fc. 

complain of. The portraits, 1 admit, a little 
impair the literary illusion ; but I have got 
over that difficulty by calling them frontis- 
pieces. Here, f o r exa m p 1 e, ar e * T h e I -o v e hi rd 
Twins/ both volumes-" 

He held up the paper, in which were the 
photographs of two portions of what Sir 
Walh-r Si.-utt r;il'.cd ihat species of dough 
which we call a fine baby. 

" You and me," said the doctor, "that 
picture may leave cold. But exercise your 

babies and pretend to be bored by the whole 
business, but don't you believe it If a well- 
read copy of this paper is not folded up 
in the pockets of Mr Lovebird and Mr. 
Wilkinson and Mr. Brownson by Saturday 
next I will give fifty pounds to the foundling 
Hospital And think of the copies they will 
send away. I tell you, sir, this little paper is 
a gold-mine— a gold-mine of wealth and of 

happinesOnONnal from 

The Life Story of a Wild Orchid. 


Author oj ** Some Nature Biograflrics" * l Peeps into Natures Ways** * £ Minute Mameh fif Nature" gfa 
lUustiaied fr&ffl Original Photographs hy the Author. 

^OT>^I HAVE J lls 
Jfc^A vfe been work in j 



Jfij amongst 
^ orchids, but 
have had to 
leave the work somewhat 
abruptly owing to an un- 
expected thunder-shower 
It so happens that my 
orchids are not grown 
under glass ; in Tact, it is 
quite probable that my 
orchid garden would 
astonish most of my 
readers if they saw it. A 
frsend to whom I intro- 
duced this garden re- 
marked that it was what 
he should call u a lane.' 1 
Now that ia just what my 
orchid garden is — a real 
good, old-fashioned, War- 
wickshire country lane. 
On either side of the 
rough and cart - rutted 
roadway there is a broad 
spread of green grass 
before the hedge- 
row is reached, and 
amongst that grass, 
the whole long length 
of the lane, through- 
out the year you can 
always find a choice 
wild flora. 

The lowlying and 
broadest of these 
grassy expanses is 
generally a semi -sub- 
merged area, and it is 
there that my spotted 
orchids grow, for they 
love moist quarters. 
There they throw up 
their tall spikes of 
pale lilac blossoms all 
spotted with deeper 
purple. In the first 
illustration one of 
these spikes of bloom 
U shown natural size* 

Fig. i.— A spike of ihi* Spotted Orchis— 
natural size. 

In the mass the little 
flowers imke a show, but 
individually they are in- 
significant. Their insig- 
nificance, however, is 
only a matter of size; 
structurally considered, 
each is as much an 
orchid as the choice 
odontoglossums, cattle- 
yas, or cypripediums of 
the rich cultivator In 
illustration l H ig. 2 this is 
clearly illustrated. Here 
is shown a magnified view 
of the topmost part of 
one of these spikes, with 
one flower fully opened 
and the lower flowers 
removed. So enlarged, 
its orchid form is readily 

My work amongst the 
plants to - day has not 
been cultivation. The 
spotted orchid, or, to be 
strictly correct, orchis, 
needs no attention ; 
it thrives best w T hcn 
left to its own re- 
sources. It has, by 
slow adaptation of its 
form and structure to 
the requirements of 
its environment, at- 
tained a marvellous 
degree of perfection. 
Indeed, when con- 
sidering the curious 
details of its remark- 
able organization one 
is inclined to wonder 
if there can be found 
anything more extra- 
ordinary in the whole 
of the plant world. 
Perhaps there is no- 
thing more extra- 
ordinary, unless it is 

r57]7^ n i|^iAnV tner species of 

i.[]JLirm:i] view 01 ime in nn: nnwcrsf I y II I a I I I vj I ji. , 

An i'h]:ir^i:(] vk:u- oTime uf l\vi flower 



species possesses its own novel characteristics, 
together with the general family traits, the 
spotted orchis is as wonderful as any. My 
work to-day has been an investigation into 
the mysteries of its existence, and I now 
invite my readers to share my observations. 

There are the roots of this curious plant. 
They are well worth a little study, but it will 
need some considerable care to get them 
clear of the soil in anything like a perfect 
condition. Time after time the stems will 
break off low down in the ground without 
revealing any signs of the pair of tubers, 
illustration Fig. 3 will, however, explain 
matters Above 
the flattened and 
divided tubers are 
some strong, 
vermiform roots 
which direct their 
growth towards the 
earth's centre, and 
consequently exert 
a downward pull 
at the base of the 
stem, A result is 
that each year the 
tubers get deeper 
into the earth ; 
therefore, the older 
the plant the 
greater will be the 
difficulty of remov- 
ing it uninjured. 
The tubers spread 
out somewhat 
laterally, and are 
divided into finger- 
like segments. 
Now this arrange- 
ment places the 
orchids amongst 
the most up-to-dale 

of plants, so to speak, as regards their roots, 
These slender roots penetrate the soil deeply 
and thus sink the tubers into the earth well 
below the frost level, and so their rich food- 
stores are protected from cold and above- 
ground enemies* Also, the stem above the 
tubers is weak, and is readily broken at that 
part, so that a pull from above only results 
in breaking off the upper part of the plantj 
a loss which the roots and rich tubers will 
remedy in due course of time. 

The tubers themselves are of peculiar 
interest. As is common with thrifty and 
advanced plants that suddenly make a bold 
show of bloom, the flowering spike of this 
wild orchis is produced at the expense of 

Fig, 3.- 

'TtRr CUrUmS tubers 


a previous season's growth, A further 
glance at illustration Fig. 3 will show that 
both the tubers of the same plant appear 
to be about the same size ; and this arises 
from the fact that both plants were gathered 
midway in the growing season. Early in 
the year we should have found one large 
tuber, and possibly the decayed and shrunken 
remains of another ; and again, as winter 
approaches, we should find a similar contrast, 
The large tuber left before winter is that 
which is to supply the material for the growth 
of the following spring and summer Later 
the leaves assimilate further material, and 

from this a new 
tuber is formed as 
a store -house for 
the next season's 
growth; midway in 
the season we find 
a pair of tubers of 
almost equal size, 
but they differ in 
that while one is 
half exhausted the 
other is but half 

Thil arrange- 
ment of two tubers, 
one for present 
and the other fo. 
future use, is pecu- 
liar to the orchids, 
and the signifi- 
cance of this device 
has not to my 
knowledge been 
observed. Now, 
my examination of 
the roots of a num- 
ber of these plants 
to-day suggests that 
the spotted orchis 
has adopted by this double organization of its 
root functions a most practical and ingenious 
tactic. look again at the photograph Fig* 3, 
and note that each tuber takes opposite 
directions. Glance at the example on the 
left of the photograph, and observe the pale 
coloured conical bud that appears at the 
apex of the tuber against the stem. From 
that bud will come the main stem of next 
season's growth. Now it is obvious that, if 
the newly formed tuber directs its course in 
the opposite direction to the old one, when 
the latter perishes, together with the stem, the 
new tuber is left alone on new ground. Then, 
in due course, when growth commences* 
the|^ fl?MTf l CT l WK pi)i|^fjitself,and from 

which iJime tbr pLiKL on Ui new 
each year. 



the top of the tuber new slender roots are 
formed which eventually fix the tuber in 
its position. Thus, each season the orchis 
exploits new ground, and the stem, therefore, 
commences to grow under the most favour- 
able conditions j indeed, the plant has in 
this manner accomplished by its own device 
what is equivalent to a u rotation of crops," 
the importance of which the farmer well 

This well-arranged root-scheme, then, not 
only provides the 
plant with water 
and mineral sub- 
stances, but also 
serves to protect 
it from frost and 
animal attacks ; 
supplies it with a 
storehouse of food 
material for early 
growth the follow- 
ing season, and 
withal moves the 
plant each year 
into new quarters* 
With purposes so 
perfectly arranged 
for at the founda- 
tion, we might 
naturally antici- 
pate other complex 
structures as the 
outcome of such 
adaptations ; and 
we are not dis- 
appointed t 

When the spring 
sunlight begins to 
make its power 
felt, the shoot at 
the summit of the 
tuber makes its 
way through the 
soil and quickly 
unfolds its quaint, 
leaves. Many are 
the half- hours in 

which I have puzzled over those leaves* Strik- 
ing and mysterious are they in the extreme. 
They are smooth, glossy, deep olive green, 
and spotted with stripes and dots of a dark 
brown pigment ; and it is these curious, 
brown markings that make them so mysterious. 
Their function has always been an insoluble 
problem ; undoubtedly these conspicuous 
spots have a definite purpose in the economy 
of this complex and advanced plant strue- 

Vol. xxwi— 28, 

Fig. 4. — A young plant, showing the arrangement of its leaves. 

ture, but I am not aware that any naturalist 
or botanist has ever advanced a suggestion 
as to their use and meaning. 

Time after time, when looking on those 
weird spots and trying to decipher their 
hidden meaning, it has seemed to me that 
they possessed an appearance with which I 
was familiar, but the explanation I was seek- 
ing persistently evaded me. To-day I think 
I have caught a glimpse of their true signifi- 
cance. My suggestion may by some be 

thought absurd ; 
however that may 
be, the function of 
these spots remains 
to be explained^ 
and I have just 
been forcibly im- 
pressed by what 
I have seen* 

By the side of 
my moist plot 
where the orchids 
grow thickest there 
lies a wood, and I 
had just reached 
the edge of it, in 
my search for 
choice specimens 
of the plant, when 
I observed part of 
what was appa 
rently a particularly 
attractive leaf rest- 
ing against the 
fresh green of the 
surrounding grass. 
I stretched out my 
hand to remove 
some of the grass 
that was covering 
this fresh-looking 
plant, when in- 
stantly the leaf dis- 
appeared from 
view, and a 
moment later an 
adder— a rare rep- 
tile in this district 
— scuttled away into the hedge bottom and 
disappeared in the wood. That rapid glimpse 
of the startled reptile awakened my memory, 
and I was suddenly enabled to explain what, 
in my mind, the curious spotted leaves of 
the wild orchis resembled. 

The exposed part of the olive body of that 
viper, striped and spotted with dark markings, 
as it appeared amongst the grass, was almost 
identicaf jW ^^ mfl9f; nf|^ f |,e£ | | 1 ome of the 




leaves of the orchis when similarly placed ; 
indeed, the very curves that the leaves 
assumed as they poked amongst the blades 
of grass presented an astonishing resemblance. 
Look at the photograph of the young plant 
in Fig. 4 and carefully note how the leaves 
are arranged to spread out in different direc- 
tions, and also how each leaf bends over at 
the end and exposes its upper and spotted 

After noting these things, go a step farther 
and look at one of these orchis plants from 
above as it grows amongst the thick grass. 
You will then get only partial glimpses of its 
leaves, especially of those parts where the 
spots are most conspicuous, and especially is 
this so before the flowers appear. Remem- 
ber, too, that this is how grazing animals 
would view the plant. Now, grazing animals 
doubtless possess a much better acquaint- 
ance with snakes and similar reptiles, and 
also with amphibians, such as frogs, toads, 
and newts, than man does. In the course 
of their daily feeding amongst the herbage 
no doubt they frequently meet with them, 
and especially in those districts where these 
creatures are abundant. It follows, there- 
fore, that they naturally avoid them. My 
reader will now, of course, see my point ; if 
the leaves of the wild orchis present a super- 
ficial resemblance to such animals they will 
also be avoided. 

Seeing that without- its leaves the orchis 
could produce neither tubers nor flowers, it 
is obvious that, in the dangerous situations 
in which it grows, the leaves need the 
greatest possible protection. The method 
of protection adopted is a most novel one, 
but, nevertheless, one perfectly in keeping 
with the advanced characteristics and adapta- 
tions of this up-to-date plant. 

As I have endeavoured to show, both the 
roots and leaves of the spotted orchis exhibit 
highly advanced devices which doubtless 
prove of great value in the plant's economy. 
It is in its floral structures, however, that the 
complex specialization of this weed of the 
country-side culminates. The flowers of 
orchids show such marvellous adaptation for 
ensuring insect fertilization that the slightest 
acquaintance with their wondrous details is 
sufficient to reveal what is almost the equiva- 
lent of human design. Darwin, in referring to 
the flowers of one of the species belonging to 
the same genus, says : "As in no other plant, 
or indeed in hardly any animal, can adapta- 
tions of one part to another, and of the whole 
to other organisms widely remote in the scale 
of Nature, be named more perfect than those 

presented by this orchis." The science of 
homology has shown that the complex 
organization of floral structure found in an 
orchid is but a modification of some more 
simple type of flower, such as a lily. A lily 
consists of five alternating whorls of floral 
organs, composed of three petal-like sepals, 
three petals, six stamens in two whorls of 
three each, and, in the centre, a pistil, or 
ovary, of three cells, or divisions ; however, 
if the general reader should endeavour to 
trace these parts in an orchid flower his 
task would now be a difficult one, for 
instead of the flower being composed of 
fifteen parts, as in the lily, only seven now 
remain. Three sepals and two petals still 
exist as such ; the stamens have disappeared 
entirely, excepting the pollen-producing part 
of one of them. The lost stamens are 
combined with the pistil or ovary, and with 
the remaining petal, to form the structures 
known as the column and the labellum 
respectively. Such modifications of the 
original parts of a flower are, of course, 
not unusual ; a familiar instance of such 
changes is that of the doubling of a flower, 
where the numerous stamens of a poppy or 
an anemone become petals, and so produce 
the so-called " doubled " flower. But why 
has the orchid disposed of five out of six of 
its original stamens that produce the valuable 
fertilizing pollen ? Surely a progressive plant 
such as the spotted orchis cannot afford to 
dispense with its reproductive parts ! The 
fact is, the orchis conducts its floral diplomacy 
with such skilful adjustment that it can do 
as much, or even more, with its one par- 
tially-remaining stamen as its remote, lily- 
type ancestors were able to do with their six. 
The spotted orchis caters more particu- 
larly for the visits of bees and several species 
of flies. How perfectly it caters I now will 
ask my reader to observe. Upon looking 
closely at Fig. 2, it will be seen that the 
lower half of the flower is composed of a 
large petal (which originally was probably 
a petal and two stamens). This petal is 
drawn back so as to form a spur-like nectary, 
and, in a general way, the whole is called the 
lower lip, or labellum. On the surface of 
this lip, it will be noticed, appear some deep 
purple spots all of which converge into the 
hollow of the nectary. As it stands the lip 
is a landing-stage for the bee or fly, and to 
prevent any waste of time or misunderstand- 
ing on the part of the visiting insect the 
purple - coloured spots immediately con- 
duct it to the nectsry; it therefore has 
no U flf^Wft I Tf 0|F l F Wunderiny by searching 



underneath the flower, or elsewhere. So at 
once on its arrival it plunges its head and 
proboscis into the nectary. Once again 
observing Fig. 2, within the two upper hood- 

Fig. 5. — The bristle represents the tuiigue of the bee or 
butterfly about to be inserted into the tube of tbc nectary. 

like petals will be seen a dark looking object 
with a round pale-coloured base, that projects 
a short distance into the mouth of the tube 
of the nectary. This object is the remaining 
stamen that produces the fertilizing pollen, 
and around its pale-coloured base are the 
stigmas to receive the pollen — but the pollen 
of another flower. 

The visiting bee or fly, then, lands upon 
the stage or lip of the flower, and inserts its 
proboscis to search the nectary. In reaching 
to the depths of the tube its head, eyes, or 
some part of its proboscis invariably comes 
in contact with the pale coloured disk of thtj 
stamen that projects into the tube of the 
nectary. This disk is viscid, and immedi- 
ately the insect touches it the disk adheres 
to the part in contact with ir, and at the same 
time the little sac that encloses the pollen 
bursts open. The insect, having quenched 
its thirst, withdraws its proboscis and away 
it flies; but not as it came, for on its fore- 
head, or on some part of its proboscis, it 
now has two tiny but beautifully - formed 
clubs which it withdrew, together with the 
viscid disk, from the stamen sac or pouch. 
These two little clubs stand upright upon the 

head or some other part of the anatomy of 
the insect, when first withdrawn from their 
cover, but, as it flies, in about half a minute, 
they fall forward, towards the apex of its 
proboscis. I have endeavoured to illustrate 
this proceeding artificially in Figs. 5 and 6 f 
since a lively fly or bee scarcely lends itself 
to the camera for showing the details I am 
describing* In Fig. 5 appears an enlarged 
view of some of the flowers (their natural 
size is shown in Fig. 2), together with a 
delicate bristle supposed to represent the 
tongue or proboscis of the bee. In Fig. 6 
the bristle has been -pushed into the 
tube of the nectary and then withdrawn. 
Observe the two minute clubs now attached 
to the bristle. Owing to the delay of 
arranging for photographing, the clubs have 
had sufficient time to fall from their vertical 
position and are now pointing towards the 
end of the bristle, just as they would on the 
proboscis of the insect, 

I have previously remarked that the 
stigmas which receive the pollen were below 
the sticky disk of the stamen, so that if this 
bristle were directed into the same flower 
again the ends of the clubs would now come 

Fig. 6. — The bristle lining withdrawn from the nectary tube 

uli-civc Lbt tttu tiny clubs tKJW ujkjii the bridle. 

into direct contact with the stigmatic surfaces, 
and that flower would then be self- fertilized, 
tor tat hot tfh-r chibs is a mass nl pollen 

grain, ^jgfft >ff M^^T ^ "*"* 



of elastic or viscid threads. The insect, how- 
ever, does not visit the same flower twice in 
succession, but flies to another ; and as it 
travels the little pollen clubs adjust them- 
selves from vertical to horizontal positions, 
so that the next flower visited will receive 
the pollen. Such is the ingenious device by 
means of which the spotted orchis effects 
the cross-fertilization of its flowers. Condi- 
tionally that an insect visits the flower, it is 
scarcely possible for things to go wrong ; the 
results of its one stamen are so sure that it 
is of more value than the six of its remote 

In illustration Fig, 7 is shown a further 
magnified view of the little pollen masses. 
Each tiny flake of which they are seen to be 
built is composed of numerous grains, 
corresponding to 
the pollen dust so 
familiar in lilies 
and other flowers, 
held together by 
sticky threads. 
When the clubs 
touch the stigma 
some of these 
flakes adhere to it, 
for the viscid secre- 
tion of the stigma 
possesses a greater 
pull than that of 
the threads of the 
pollen masses. A 
pair of clubs may 
fertilize the stigmas 
of several flowers. 

Surely, then, this wild orchis that revels in 
my roadside plot has attained a most com- 
plex development Each modification of its 
original structure that has served its species 
in good stead throughout the ages of its 
evolution has been faithfully preserved until 
we find now this complex aggregate of their 
merits* The obvious adaptation of the floral 
structure and the ingenious method adopted 
for the removal of the pollen masses and for 
their safe and sure conveyance to a neigh- 
bouring flower are striking features indeed, 
but it is the minute details, the insignificant 
nothings, as it were, of the scheme that are 
perhaps most striking. For instance, several 
observers discovered that after all this com- 
plex arrangement of a landing stage, honey 
guides, and a spur for the nectary, no nectar or 
honey was secreted by flowers of this genus ; 
a most contradictory state of affairs, for 
it was scarcely reasonable to assume that 
; nsects would persistently visit flowers where 

Fig. 7. — A magnified view of ilic pollen clubs* 

they received no payment in return. Darwin 
examined the flowers after sunshine, alter 
rain, and at all hours and under various con- 
ditions, but no nectar could he find ; yet he 
observed that flies continually visited the 
flowers and inserted their probosces for 
considerable periods of time. Later he dis- 
covered within the nectary tube a delicate 
lining membrane that could be penetrated 
very easily, and that when it was punctured 
copious juices were forthcoming. Now, this 
arrangement occupies the insect much longer 
than if it had simply to insert its proboscis 
and suck up the free nectar, and Darwin 
suggests that this delay serves to insure that 
the viscid pollen disk is securely attached 
before the insect leaves the flower. So we 
might investigate a hundred other little points 

of striking interest j 
such as that of the 
changing of the 
position of the 
pollen masses, or 
that the viscid 
base of the stamen 
remains sticky 
while in the flower, 
but dries immedi- 
ately on its re- 
moval, attaching 
itself to the insect 
in such a manner 
that it cannot be 
removed until it 
has visited many 
flowers- It is im- 
possible to shake 
the pollen masses from a bristle or similar 
foreign body after they are once attached \ 
the insect, therefore, has no alternative but 
to work them off in the course of its travels. 
Finally, I may mention that the ovary or 
seed-vessel of each flower is twisted. Why 
the necessity of that curious feature ? It so 
happens that the large petal used as a land- 
ing-stage was, in the primary arrangement of 
the flower, the upper petal ; as, however, it 
could not in that position serve any useful 
purpose, by twisting round the seed-pod and 
bringing it to the lower lt:vcl it provided an 
excellent landing - stage for insects ; so it 
came to hold its present position. 

Perhaps I have said enough to make the 
thoughtful reader reflect that plants are not 
quite the insentient organisms that we some- 
times consider them to be, There is purpose 
in gven the minutest detail of their complex 
structures ; their intelligence may be un- 

"""m^ttw^ft* real 







[The following story is composed on an entirely new and original plan. It is made up of extracts 
selected from the works of some fifty well-known novelbls^ nothing being changed except the names of the 
characters. To make a consistent and natural story under these conditions requires wide reading and very 
con sideratife ingenuity. It forms, in fact, a sort of puzzle of a very amusing and insiructive kind. If any of 
our readers would like lo try their hands at composing a slory on this principle, taking the present example as 
a model with regard to form and kngth, and will send us the result, we shall lie pleased to publish ihe one 
which we consider the best of them at out usual rate of payment, presuming, of course, that we receive 
a story of sufficient merit to justify publication. Not more than two extracts from the works of the 
same writer should appear, 

The beginning of each extract starts opposite the title of the work from which it is taken, printed 
in most cases at the head of the portrait of the writer,] 



beautiful and 

good ; Archibald I 

Peythroppe and ' 
she were acknowledged 
lovers, but marriage was not 
spoken of as a near event ; 
and latterly old Milverton 
had seemed cool whenever 
his daughter mentioned the young man's 
name, Hildehrand Peythroppe, Archibald's 
brother, was in love with his brother's sweet- 
heart, but though he trembled with pleasure 
when she was near him he never looked at 
her except by stealth. He knew he had no 
business to love her. 

The more his heart felt 
that it was painful, the more 
his reason told him that it 
was necessary he should 
part from Priscilla Milverton. 
To his union with her there 
was an obstacle which his 
prudence told him ought to 
be insurmountable. Yet he 
felt that during the few days 

he had been with her, the few hours he had been 
near her, he had, with his utmost power over 
himselfj scarcely been master of his passion 
or capable of concealing it from its object 

His mind turned towards the army, He 
thought that abroad and in active life he 
should lose all the painful recollections, and 
drive from his heart all the resentments, 
which could now be only a source of un avail* 
ing regret. 

Before leaving he would 
see her and explain, and 
chance threw an oppor- 
tunity in his way* 

ball w a s 
due, and 
society was 
as much excited about it as 
a family of children before 
Christmas* All who were 
invited were going, unless 
they happened to be in mourning. 

Mrs, Devon's mansions were thrown open 
early in the evening, but few would come 


"The Metropolis*" 

Upton Sinclair. 




of His 

That evening, when Pris- 
cilla came tripping into the 
drawing-room in a white 
muslin frock prepared for 
conquest, a tall gentleman, 
set off in the military 
frogged coat and cocked 
hat of those times, advanced 
to meet her. 

This was no other than 
Cap tai n H i 1 d ehr a n d Pey t h r oppe, 
Majesty's Regiment of Foot. 

Ilildebrand had given her 
his arm without speaking. 
She took It in silence, and 
they moved away, not toward 
the supper-room, but against 
the tide which was setting 
thither. The faces about her 
flowed by like the streaming 
images of sleep : she hardly 
noticed where Hilde brand 
was leading her, till they passed through a glass 
doorway at the end of a long suite of rooms 
and stood suddenly in the fragrant hush of a 
garden. Gravel grated beneath their feet, and 
about them was the transparent dimness of 
a midsummer night. Hanging lights made 
emerald caverns in the depths of foliage, and 
whitened the spray of a fountain falling among 
lilies. The magic place was deserted : there 
was no sound but the plash of the water on 
the lily -pads , and a distant drift of music that 
might have been blown across a sleeping lake. 

Then, all at once, the 
fierce hold which he had 
been keeping on himself 
seemed to crumble into 

"I can bear this no 
longer ! " he cried, facing 
her. "I tell you I can 
bear this no longer ! I am 
going to India because I 
cannot stop here in England- If I stop I 
shall go mad. I tell you I have lived such 
a month as you could not even imagine* as 
you could not think of even in an evil 
dream. I'm going to India because I want 
to be as far from everything as possible, 

" Oh j I knew you would 
be angry," he continued, as 
he looked into her face. " I 
know I am mad ; I know 
what I say must seem to 
you preposterous. But 1 
cannot help it. For a month 
I have been fighting against 
it I have told myself that 

I am a fool— a madman ; but I cannot 

destroy the feeling, I know that you resent 
my making this confession. Forgive me, 
Miss Milverton.*' 

The girl answered never a word, The 
blood had mantled to her face and her lips 
were tremulous. There was something over- 
mastering in his presence. She admired him 
— cared for him more than for Archibald. 
He was more of a man in every way, 

" When do you go?" she 
asked him abruptly, 

"Not for about a month.'* 

He mentioned the causes 
of delay. Her smile was 
linked with a sigh. He 
came nearer to her. 

"You should never be 
lonely, if I could help it," 
he said, in a low voice. 

He felt within him a sudden snapping of 
restraints. Why — why refuse what w*as so 
clearly within his grasp? Love has many 
manners — many entrances — and many exits. 

He was silent a moment, but his face 
spoke for him. 

" How charming you are in that dress — 
in that light ! I shall always see you as you 
are to-night,' 3 

A silence. Excitement mounted in their 
veins. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her 
hands. They looked into each other's eyes. 

For a time they were 
oblivious to everything save 
their own happiness. Had 
they been some village lad 
and lass wandering in a 
country lane, their love- 
making could not have been 
more simple, they could not 
have cared less for the eyes 
of the world. She was only 
a girl of twenty and he a few years older. 
They forgot Lo be conventional as they 
whispered to each other the words that trans- 
formed the cold, dark night into a June 
morning. Realities came back to them 
presently, however. 

Excepting always falling 
off a horse, there is nothing 
more fatally easy than 
marriage before a registrar. 
The ceremony costs less 
than fifty shillings, and is 
remarkably like walking into 
a pawn-shop. After the 
declaration of residence has 
been put in, four minutes 



attestation, and <ill Then the registrar slides 
the blotting-pad over the names and says, 
grimly, with his pen between his teeth, " Now 
you're man and wife/' and the couple walk 
out in the street feeling as if something were 
horribly illegal somewhere. 

But that ceremony holds, and can drag a 
man to his undoing just as thoroughly as 
11 long as ye both shall live " curse from the 
altar-rails, with the bridesmaids giggling 
behind and " The Voice that Breathed O'er 
Eden" lifting the roof off. 

Hildebrand had received an appointment 
in India which carried a magnificent salary 
from the home point of view. The marriage 
was to be kept secret for a year. After one 
short month came Gravesend, and Hilde- 
brand steaming out to his new life. 


Tides of Fortune/ 

" Tom Jones," 

Archibald Peythroppk, 
having made up his mind 
to marry Miss Milverton, 
showed a power of adapting 
means to ends. He had 
thought that the affair would 
be concluded more quickly, 
and to his own surprise he 
had repeatedly promised 
himself in a morning that 
he would today give Priscilla the opportu- 
nity of accepting him, and had found in the 
evening that the necessary formality was still 
unaccomplished* This remarkable fact served 
to brighten his determination on another day. 
He had never admitted to himself that 
Priscilla might refuse him. 

He was indeed perfectly 
well satisfied with his pro- 
spect of success ; for as to 
that entire and absolute 
possession of the heart of 
his mistress, which romantic 
lovers require, the very idea 
of it never entered his head. 
Her fortune and her person 
were the sole objects of his 
wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to 
obtain the absolute property. Of Hildebrand 
he certainly had not even the least jealousy. 

Archibald had the reputa- 
tion of being exceedingly 
fast, and he was known to 
be deeply in debt. Certainly 
he was not the sort of man 
whom Milverton would have 
wished his daughter to 
marry, for all that he was 
distinctly good-looking ; for 

Hlnky Fikijjing. 

chaperons eyed him askance 

and guarded their charges 

carefully whenever he 

appeared on the scene. In- 
deed, he had narrowly 

escaped from appearing in 

court in the capacity of a 

co-respondent on one 

occasion, and he had also 

been mixed up in a big society gambling 


He was not an eager boy 

to give way to a {>assion 

without counting the cost 

He had lived so long in the 

world, the centre of which 

is situated somewhere about 

Park I^ane, and he had come 

to believe so thoroughly that 

the leading characteristic of 

this world is worldliness, that 

he had lost the capacity to trust anyone 


Then came news of the 

death of Sir John Milver- 
ton, The suddenness of 

the event startled Archibald, 

There was clearly no time 

to be lost. 

reached the 
hous e o [ 
the Milver- 

tons by six o'clock in the 
evening. He was shown 
into the library, and oppo- 
site to him, by the window, 
Priscilla stood alone. She 
turned to him a white, 
face—gazed at him for a 

second like one dazed 

u Priscilla ! " he exclaimed. 
She sat down — he sat 
down also. 

" You don't understand 
me a bit, Priscilla — now, 
don't s tarn p you r foot . \ V h y 
on earth mayn't I call you 
Priscilla? I tell you to call 
me Archibald, I did try to 
forget all about you, but I 

She did not fear him, but it seemed that 
the man w T as promising to render life insup- 

u Do you understand, I want you — you! 
No one else in all the world." 

He had scMrftfffiSttf and w ^ holdin 8 




4 < The House of the 

"Archibald, you have got » A Pftir of Pa[iem 
to £/*4W. I'm ashamed to Luvtn*' 

tell you, but I should be 
more ashamed not to after 
what's happened," 

She stopped with a quirk 
catch in her breath, and the 
darkness round them seemed 
to become luminous. 

11 Hildebrand is my husband ! M 

The statement was made 
in the purest innocence j 
yet never, as may well be 
imagined, did words fall 
with more stunning force. 
Not one moved so much as 
a lip or an eyelid. Archibald 
only stared, wanting time to 
take in the astonishing 
meaning of the words, 

M Hildebrand : s wife ! Prise ilia Milverton 
married! 11 If the statement were true it 
meant that he had been fooled indeed. 

And thus Archibald Pey- 
throppe learnt the truth — 
truth which was hateful to 
him — truth from which he 
shrank as a man shrinks 
from a bar of hot iron. But 
once the fierce heat had 
touched his flesh his blood 
danced in his veins and his 
brain surged with one 
thought — Revenge ! 

There was only one way 
in which he could achieve 
his ends. 

What was that? Murder? 

Murder is terrible — hideous ■ — damning. 
But it was the only thing that would enable 
him to reach his desires. 

He rose suddenly and 
stood gaping in the centre 
of the room, as a mad, hazy 
idea began to form in his 
brain. His eyes blinked 
and his face grew white with 
excitement. Then he put 
on his hat and, deep in 
thought, went out, 

\\i was still thinking 
deeply as he boarded the train for Southamp- 
ton next morning. 

He took a lodging and 
walked to it, after sending 
on his belongings. On his 
way he stopped at a quiet barber-shop and 
had his beard and moustache shaved off 
After that it was not likely that any of his 


"Lc* Maris." 
! Fortune mi BoiSr 

'A Benefit Perform- 
ance" (" Many 


* Soprano." 

acquaintance should recog- 
nise him, But he took 

further steps towards com- 
pleting his disguise by 

making radical and painful 

changes in his dress. He 

bought ready-made French 

clothes j he put on a pair 

of square kid boots with 

elastic sides and patent 

leather tips. He wore a soft silk cravat 

artificially tied in a bow-knot with wide and 

floating ends, and he purchased a French 

silk hat with a broad and curving brim. 

Having satisfied himself that the effect was 

good, he further adorned his appearance with 

tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles and a green 



The trouble in the Far East 

had blown over, and Hilde- 

brand, possessing a pleasant 

notoriety and his due share 

of distinction, had embarked 

for England. 

At the moment when 

Archibald was expecting 

him he had been twenty- 
four hours in his native 

country. Through the darkest of the nights 
Hildebrand Peythroppe 
was riding home, a distance 
of some fifteen miles from 
Southampton. His way led 
through forests of chestnut, 
clothing the slopes and 
plateau of chalk. The road 
was bad — to be more exact, 
there was no road, there 
was hut a track. 
He was not alone — a 

friend shared his journey, 

and made the loneliness of 

the long ride much more 

tolerable than it would have 

been if he had had to face 

his thoughts alone. 

They had 
come to- 
gether in 

the great troopship. They 
became friends and had 
shared up things together 
from the time they first 
saw each other. When one 
had a thing it belonged to 
the other as well. This 

campaign had been a hard one, and they 

had L^^sf?'*MlG°?}f " ° nly men 

Bakt Kennedy. 



tb In a Hollow of 
the Hills." 

Brit Haute. 

who share the same hardships can* They 
had starved and Coiled and marched and 
suffered hunger and thirst together. 

It was very dark and the 
wind was increasing. The 
air was filled with a faint, 
cool, sodden odour — as of 
stirred forest depths. In 
those intervals of silence the 
darkness seemed to increase 
in proportion and grow 
almost palpable* Yet out of 
this sightless and sound- 
less void now came the tinkle of a spur's 
rowels, the dry crackling of saddle leathers, 
and the muffled plunge of a hoof in the 
thick carpet of dust and desiccated leaves. 
Then a voice, which in spite of its matter- 
of-fact reality the obscurity lent a certain 
mystery to, said : — 

" I can't make out anything I Where the 
devil have we got to, anyway ? It's as black 
as Tophet, here ahead ! " 

"Strike a light and make a flare with 
something," returned a second voice, " Look 
where you're shoving to now — keep your 
horse off, will ye ?" 

There was more muffled plunging, a 
silence, the rustle of paper, the quick spurt 
of a match, and then the uplifting of a 
flickering flame. 

" Easy does it," muttered 
Archibald, under his breath. 

Further over in the dark- 
ness was a very small 
moving dot on the road in 
front, beyond the low outer 
hedge. The red glow, 
stoppered at intervals by 
a deft finger, was Hilde- 
brand, smoking his pipe. 

Archibald put the gun to 
his shoulder. He aimed 
and pressed the trigger ; 
the gun exploded heavily 
in the mist. The man 
leapt into the air and fell 
upon his back. 


1 Li air Euoti. 1 

S, H. Crockett. 

"A Masked Hat- 

F. M. WiriTK. 
VoL xxxvl— 20. 

went back 

to the house and let himself 
quietly in with his latchkey. 
After he had fastened up 
the front door he turned to 
the dining room. Here he 
helped himself liberally to 

" Man in Chuzzk- 


11 1 need it," he muttered " I am afraid 
my nerves are not quite what I thought they 

What had he left within 
the wood ? 

The body of a murdered 
man. In one thick solitary 
spot it lay among the last 
year's leaves of oak and 
beech just as it had fallen 
headlong down. Sopping 
and soaking in among the 
leaves that formed its pillow; 
oozing down into the boggy ground as if to 
cover itself from human sight ; forcing its 
way between and through the curling leaves 
a.s if those senseless things rejected and fore- 
swore it and were coiled up in abhorrence, 
went a dark, dark stain that dyed and 
scented the whole summer night from earth 
to heaven. 

And he was not sorry for what he had 
done. He was frightened when he thought 
of it— when did he not think of it? — but he 
was not sorry. 

Archibald, next morning, 
rose at an unlikely hour. 
The tall clock in the hall t 
accenting with its slow, 
sardonic tick the silence of 
the sleeping house, marked 
a quarter to five. 

He locked 
the door 
and, sitting 

down at the square table 
in the middle of the room, 
leant his head on his hands 
and gave himself up to 

He had got in his pocket 
Sir John Milverton's will — 
the will which gave his vast fortune to his 
daughter Priscilla. 

lie took the will from his pocket — took it 
gingerly, as if it were a live thing and might 
bite him — and read it over, not once, but 
twenty times, and the sweat stood on his 
forehead as he read it. He held Priscilla 
Milverton's future in the hollow of his hand. 
Presently he thought he heard a tapping at 
the window. He jerked himself bolt upright 
and listened. It was not a dream ; he had 
not fancied it There was a tap at the 
window. He arose from the chair and stood 

The door of the chamber 
opened and a woman 

u A Girl of Spirit/' 

CtrAkMcs Gar vice. 1 


" A Chariot of 




exhausted, she advanced in 
the glimmering light. 

" Priscilla ! " exclaimed 
the astonished Archibald. 

' The Return of 
Sbcrlyck lio] lilts," 

shot from 

Beacons fih] n. 

from quivering 
Then you loved 


raised her 
head and 
One swift, 
brilliant gleam 
her heavy eyes, 



you from 

the man you were to the 

man you are ? " 

" Hate/' 

She recoiled at the grim 
woid — recoiled, too, from 
the expression on his face. 

" You hated — your 
brother?" The words fell 
lips. " You hated him. 

"Always/ 1 he answered. . - * "You 
my brother's wife," he said, slowly. 

11 Why did you not realize 
that I should get even with 
you one day, as sure as you 
were woman and I was 
man ? " 

Priscilla did not shrink 
back, though the pupils of 
her eyes dilated. Was it 
the wildest thing in the 
world which happened to 
her, or was it not ? Without warning the 
sudden rush of a thought, immense and 
strange, swept over her body and soul and 
possessed her — so possessed her that it 
changed her pallor to white flame. It was 
actually he who shrank back a shade, 
because for the moment she looked so near 

" I am not afraid of you," she said, in a 
clear, unshaken voice ; " I am not afraid. 
Something is near me which will stand 
between us — something which Hid to-day." 

He almost gasped before the strangeness 
of it, but caught back his breath and re- 
covered himself. 

gf Died today ! 
he jeered. " Let 
was it ? " 

"It was Hildebrand ! " she flung at him. 
" The church hells were tolling for him when 
I rode away. I could not stay to hear them. 
It killed me. I loved him." 

KkAML>.& JJi'Di.bUN 


That's recent enough/' 
us hear about it. Who 

Archibald Peythroppe 
laughed, but fear vibrated in 
his voice. " You were so 
very obstinate," said he. 
" Why did you drive me to 
such extremities ? " 

The woman stood with 
her hand buried in her 
bosom and the same deadly 
smile on her thin lips. 

"You will ruin no more lives as you have 
ruined mine, You will wring no more hearts 
as you have wrung mine. I will free the 
world of a poisonous thing. Take that, you 
hound— and that ! and that ! and that ! and 
that : M 

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver 
and emptied barrel after barrel into Archi- 
bald's body, " You've done me," he cried, 
and lay stilL 

Priscilla was startled by a 
ring at the door, the signal 
of a visitor. The door 
opened, and to her very 
great surprise Hildebrand 
Peythroppe, and Hilde- 
brand Peythroppe only, 
entered the room. 

S h e 

back, turned as pale as 
death, to put her hands 
before her face. Hilde- 
brand was himself for a 
moment much overcome, 
but seeming suddenly to 
remember the necessity of 
using an opportunity which 
again occur, he said, in a low 

* Pride and Preju- 

1 Kenil worth/ 1 

SrR Walteh Scott. 


voice : — 

w Priscilla, fear me not." 

" Why should I fear you ? 

Her shaking voice broke, 
and she held the cloth of his 
sleeve tightly. 

" You are alive — alive ! " 
with a sudden sweet wild- 
ness, " but it is true the bell 
tolled ! While I was crouch- 
ing in the dark I called to 
you, who died to-day, to 
stand between us." 

14 1 was alive, and you see I heard you and 
came," he answered, hoarsely. 

His eye fell upon an i "i n th*liid«of| 

object which he had not | Uff »" [ 

previously observed. It was 

almost before his face. It was partly covered 

in shadow, but he could see that it was 




•*In the Miditof 

I Ambhose Bjkrce. J 

a human figure. Instinc- 
tively he adjusted the clasp 
of his sword-belt and laid 
hold of his pistol. 

His voice 
rang out 
with a mad 

■ ( M y 
honour ! n 

Priscilla laid one hand on 
the back of the chair he had 
left to steady herself, for the 
shock of understanding him 
was more than she could 
bean Scarcely knowing that her lips moved 
she called him back* 

" Hildebrand ! Hildebrand ! Hear me!" 
"Hear you? Have I not heard ? 3J He 
turned upon her like a madman, " Have I 
not heard and remembered every word you 
have spoken those eight months and more ? 
How you would tear the memory of that 
man from your heart? How you called God 
to witness that you would forget him ? My 
honour ! My honour ! " 

Priscilla closed her eyes and grasped the 
chair. But she would not bend her head to 
the storm as she bowed it long ago. 

11 1 am innocent, I have done none of 
these things." 

She could find no other words, and he 
would not have listened to more, for he 
was beside himself, and began to rave again 
while she stood straight and white beside 
the chair. Sometimes his voice was thick, 
as his fury choked him ; sometimes it was 
shrill and wild, when his rage found vent. 
But each time as he paused exhausted to 
draw breath her words came to him 
calm and clear in the moment's 

M I am innocent" 
" How dare you say you are 
innocent ? " he asked. 

"She is 
innocent, as 
less as the fleur-de-lis in her 

innocent — as 
pure, as spot- 

H The Wandering 
Jew/ 1 


A. DljmaS, 

1 Ttte Understudy,' 

Marv Cfiolmon- 


M It was 
n t y o u 
— r ea 1 I y 
not you — 
w horn I 
killed ! 

You are alive — you are 
there ! A man that was 
like you, I, mad with rage, 
slew him — saw him fall" 
The dying man arose. 
" Take her back all the 
same ! " gasped the dying 
voice. " Devote yourself 
to her day and night. 
You love her." 

The silenced voice spoke 
no more. 

The girl 
gave a 
c hoki ng 

cry. Hildebrand quickly 
stooped and turned the 
body oven There was a 
cut where the hair met the 
temple. He opened the 
waistcoat and thrust his 
hand inside the shirt. 
Then he felt the pulse 
of the limp wrist. 

For a moment he looked at the face 
steadily, almost contemplatively it might 
have seemed, and then drew both arms close 
to the body. 

Archibald Peythroppe, the brother of 
Hildebrand, was dead, 

And thus across the chasm 
of a crime, terrible indeed, 
but necessary, the lovers were 
again united. 

GiLiiFKT Parker 

Secret. 1 ' 

G. P. H, Jamf-s. 

R Kl|>ILng, A- Mid C. Aikew, ¥, Moore, R L. FarJtwn. S, Wtrmin. K r, Ttiumton. Bar! mr-Gould, Grant Allen, II. FachoU. F. H. Burnett, 
JL l)oyl*: ptuit.m m\oU A Fry A E. W, Mumu. W r B Mfixwt-II 3, i'ntr-^tt. M, WiolmouiMey; Phott*. RusjwII A a™. flJcW 
HaggiifiL Benron^ifit'kt: Pbotwi Toe Loin Ion $tCTi«m«o[j]r Cfc, Jl. KflUWdy. .1. I |hm kiln-f ; *l*lmr*iN i;<m» Nruni-4. LM. [". Sinclair: From 
BLereotfr.ioli r'oiiyriaTit . ViirMrwood A Uiiricnvnml, H. iVnnl : Ph«ta Newman. BerXtia on *tc*u1. W. W. Jawta; FImIa. FnitiH* M. Cmwfonl ; 
Photo. Messrs. ThouiftjiL Uret liarte ; Photo. T, Fill. Q. Parker; Photo. Lafayette. C liarvtae ; Pholo. U&rrod*. 

by Google 

Original from 





M PRISON EI) in the Tower 
of London, accused of high 
treason, and having confessed 
to a too intimate knowledge 
of the Gunpowder Plot, Elfrida 
could not help feeling that it 
would be nice to be back again in her own 
time and at Arden, where, if you left events 
alone and didn't interfere with them by 
any sort of magic mould iwarpiness, nothing 
dangerous, romantic, or thrilling would ever 
happen, And yet, when she was there, as 
you know, she never could let events alone. 
She and Edred could not be content with 
that castle and that house which, even as 
they stood, would have made you and me so 
perfectly happy. They wanted the treasure, 
and they — Elfrida especially — wanted adven- 
tures. Well, now they had got an adventure, 
both of them. There was no knowing how 

Copyrighr,, 1908, by 

it would turn out, either ; and that, after all, 
is the essence of adventures. Edred was 
lodged with Lord Arden and several other 
gentlemen in the White Tower, and Elfrida 
and Lady Arden were in quite a different 
part of the building. And the children 
were not allowed to meet This, of course, 
made it impossible for either of them to try 
to get back to their own times, For though 
they sometimes quarrelled, as you know, 
they were really fond of each other, and 
most of us would hesitate to leave even a 
person we were not very fond of alone a 
prisoner in the Tower in the time of James L 
and the Gunpowder Plot. 

Elfrida had to wait on her mother and to 
sew at the sampler, which had been thought- 
fully brought by the old nurse with her lady's 
clothes and the clothes Elfrida wore. But 
there were no games, and the only out-of- 
doors Elfrida could get was on a very narrow 
terrace, where you could see the fat, queer- 




looking ships in the river and the spire of 
St. Paul's. 

Edred was more fortunate. He was 
allowed to play in the garden of the Lieu- 
tenant of the Tower. But he did not feel 
much like playing. He wanted to find 
Elfrida and get back to Arden. Everyone 
was very kind to him, but he had to be very 
much quieter than he was used to being, and 
to say " Sir " and " Madam," and not to speak 
till he was spoken to. 

One day — for they were there quite a 
number of days— Edred met someone who 
seemed to like answering questions, and this 
made more difference than perhaps you 
would think. 

Edred was walking one bright winter day 
in the private garden of the Lieutenant of the 
Tower, and he saw coming towards him a 
very handsome old gentleman dressed in very 
handsome clothes, and, what is more, the 
clothes blazed with jewels. Now most of 
the gentlemen who were prisoners in the 
Tower at that time thought that their very 
oldest clothes were good enough to wear in 
prison ; so this splendour that was coming 
across the garden was very unusual as well 
as very dazzling, and before Edred could 
remember the rules about not speaking till 
you're spoken to he found that he had 
suddenly bowed and said :— 

" Your servant, sir " ; adding, " You do 
look ripping ! " 

u I do not take your meaning," said the 
gentleman, but he smiled kindly. 

" I mean how splendid you look." 

The old gentleman looked pleased. 

" I am happy to command your admira- 
tion," he said. 

" I mean your clothes," said Edred, and 
then, feeling, with a shock, that this was not 
the way to behave, he added : " Your face 
is splendid, too ; only I've been taught 
manners, and I know you mustn't tell people 
they're handsome to their faces. Praise to 
the face is open disgrace. Mrs. Honeysett 
says so." 

"Praise to my face isn't open disgrace, 
said the gentleman. "It is a pleasant 
novelty in these walls." 

" Is it your birthday or anything ? " Edred 

" It is not my birthday," said the gentle- 
man, smiling. " But why the question ? " 

" Because you're so grand," said Edred. 
" I suppose you're a prince, then ? " 

" No, not a prince — a prisoner." 

" Oh, I see," said Edred, as people so often 
do when they don't ; " and you're going to be 

let out to-day, and you've put on your best 
things to go home in. I am so glad. At 
least, I am sorry you're going, but I'm glad 
on your account." 

"Thou'rt a fine bold boy," said the gentle- 
man ; " but no, I am a prisoner, and like to 
remain so. And for these gauds " — he swelled 
out his chest so that his diamond buttons 
and ruby earrings and gem-set collar flashed 
in the winter sun — "for these gauds never 
shall it be said that Walter Raleigh let the 
shadow of his prison tarnish his pride in the 
proper arraying of a body that has been 
honoured to kneel before the Virgin Queen." 
He took off his hat at the last words and 
swept it with a flourish nearly to the ground. 

" Oh ! " cried Edred, " are you really Sir 
Walter Raleigh ? Oh, how splendid ! And 
now you will tell me all about the golden 
South Americas, and sea-fights, and the 
Armada, and the Spaniards, and what you 
used to play at when you were a little boy." 

" Aye," said Sir Walter, " I'll tell thee tales 
enow. They'll not let me from speaking 
with thee, I warrant. I would," he said, 
looking round impatiently, " that I could see 
the river again. From my late chamber I 
saw it, and the goodly ships coming in and 
out — the ships that go down into the great 
waters." He sighed, was silent a moment, 
and then spoke. " And so thou didst not 
know thine old friend Raleigh ? He was all 
forgot, all forgot ! And yet thou hast rid 
astride my sword ere now, and I have 
played with thee in the court-yard at Arden. 
When England forgets so soon, who can 
expect more from a child ? " 

" I'm sorry," said Edred, humbly. 

" Nay," said Sir Walter, pinching his ear 
gently, " 'tis two years agone, and short years 
have short memories. Thou shalt come with 
me to my chamber and I will show thee a 
chart and a map of Windangocoa, that Her 
Dear Glorious Majesty permitted me to re- 
name Virginia, after her great and gracious 

So Edred, very glad and proud, went hand 
in hand with Sir Walter Raleigh to his apart- 
ments, and saw many strange things from 
overseas — dresses of feathers from Mexico, 
and strange images in gold from strange 
islands, and the tip of a narwhal's horn from 
Greenland, with many other things. And 
Sir Walter told him of his voyages and 
his fights, and of how he and Humphrey 
Gilbert, and Adrian Gilbert and little Jack 
Davis, used to sail their toy boats in the 
Long Stream ; and how they used to row in 
and out among the big ships down at the 





port, and look at the great figure-heads 
standing out high above the water, and 
wonder about them, and about the strange 
lands they came from. 

"And often," said Sir Walter, "we found 
a sea- captain that would tell us lads travel- 
lers' tales like these I have told thee. And 
we sailed our little ships, and then we sailed 
our big ships — and here I He in dock, and 
shall never sail again. But it's oh to see the 
Devon moors and the clear reaches of the 
Long Stream again ! And that I never shall" 

11 Oh, do cheer up, do!" said Edred, 
awkwardly. u I don't know whether they'll 
let you go to Devonshire, but I know they'll 
let you go back to America some day with 
twelve ships. I read about it only yesterday, 
and your ship will he called the Destiny \ and 
you'll sail from the Thames, and Lord Arden 

will see you off and 
kiss you farewell, and 
give you a medal for 
a keepsake. Your son 
will go with you, I 
know it's true. It's 
all in the hook.* 1 

"The book?" Sir 
Walter asked ; " a 
prophecy, belike ? " 

"You can call it 
that if you want 
to," said Ederd, 
cautiously; "but, any- 
how, it's true." 

He had read it all in 
the history of Arden. 
"If it should be 
true," said Sir Walter 
— and the smile 
came back to his 
merry eyes — " and if 
I ever sail to the 
Golden West again, 
shrew me but I will 
sack a Spanish town, 
and bring thee a 
collar of gold and 
pieces of eight — a 
big bagful." 

"Thank you very 
much," said Ed red. 
" It is very kind of 
you ; but I shall not 
be there," 

And all Sir Walter's 
questions did not 
make him say how 
he knew this, or 
what he meant by it. 
After this he met Sir Walter every day 
in the Lieutenant's garden, and the two 
prisoners comforted each other. At least, 
Ed red was comforted, and Sir Walter seemed 
to be. 

However, just now Elfrida and Edred were 
in the Tower and not able to see each other 
—so they could not discuss that or any other 
question, and they always hoped that they 
would meet, but they never did. 

But by and by the Queen thought of 
Lady Arden and decided that she and her 
son Edred ought to be let out of the Tower, 
and she told the King so, and he told 
Lord Somebody or other, who told the 
Lieutenant of the Tower, and behold Lady 
Arden and Edred were abruptly sent home 
in their own coach, which had been suddenly 
sent for, tPfMdeu House- -but Elfrida was 




left in charge of the wife of the Lieutenant 
of the Tower, who was a very kind lady* 
So now Elfrida was in the Tower and Edred 
was at Arden House in Soho, and they had 
not been able to speak to each other or 
arrange any plan for getting back to 1908 
and Arden Castle by the sea. 

Of course, Elfrida was kept in the Tower 
because she had sung the rhyme about — 

Please to remember 

The Fifth of November, 

The gunpowder treason and plot. 

And this made people think — or seem to 
think — that she knew all about the Gun- 
powder Plot. And so, of course, she did, 
though it would have been very difficult for 
her to show anyone at that time how she 
knew it without being a traitor. 

She was now allowed to see Lord Arden 
every day, and she grew very fond of him. 
He was curiously like her own daddy, who 
had gone away to South America with Uncle 
Jim, and had never come back to his little 
girl. Lord Arden also seemed to grow 
fonder of her every day. " Thou'rt a bold 
piece," he'd tell her, "and thou growest 
bolder with each day. Hast thou no fear 
that thy daddy will have thee whipped for 
answering him so pert ? " 

" No," Elfrida would say, hugging him as 
well as she could for his ruff. " I know you 
wouldn't beat your girl, don't I, daddy?" 
And as she hugged him it felt almost like 
hugging her own daddy, who would never 
come home from America. 

So she was almost contented. She knew 
that Lord Arden was not one of those to 
suffer for the Gunpowder Plot. She knew 
from the history of Arden that he would 
just be banished from the Court and end his 
days happily at Arden, and she was almost 
tempted just to go on and let what would 
happen, and stay with this new daddy who 
had lived three hundred years before, and 
pet him and be petted by him. Only, she 
felt that she must do something because of 
Edred. The worst of it was that she could 
not think of anything to do. She did not 
know at all what was happening to Edred — 
whether he was being happy or unhappy. 

As it happened, he was being, if not 
unhappy, at least uncomfortable. Mr. 
Parados, the tutor, who was as nasty a man 
as you will find in any seaside academy for 
young gentlemen, still remained at Arden 
House and taught the boys — Edred and his 
Cousin Richard. Mr. Parados was in high 
favour with the King because he had 
listened to what wasn't meant for him and 

reported it where it would do most mischief 
— a thing always very pleasing to King 
James I. — and Lady Arden dared not 
dismiss him. Besides, she was ill with 
trouble and anxiety, which Edred could not 
at all soothe by saying again and again, 
" Father worit be found guilty of treason — 
he won't be executed. He'll just be sent 
to Arden and live there quietly with you. I 
saw it all in a book." 

But Lady Arden only cried and cried. 

Mr. Parados was very severe, and rapped 
Edred's knuckles almost continuously during 
lesson time — and out of it. Said Cousin 
Richard, " He is for ever bent on spying and 
browbeating of us." 

" He's always messing about — nasty sneak," 
said Edred. u I should like to be even with 
him before I go. And I will, too." 

" Before you go ? Go whither ? " Cousin 
Richard asked. 

" Elfrida and I are going away," Edred 
began, and then felt how useless it was to 
go on, since even when the 1908 Edred whom 
he was had gone, the 1605 Elfrida and Edred 
would, of course, still be there. That is, 

if He checked the old questions, which 

he had now no time to consider, and said, in 
a firm tone which was new to him, and which 
Elfrida would have been astonished and 
delighted to hear : — 

" Yes, I've got two things to do — to be 
even with old Parrot-nose — to be revenged 
on him, I mean — and to get Elfrida out of 
the Tower. And I'll do that first, because 
she'll like to help with the other." 

The boys were on the leads, their backs to 
a chimney and their faces towards the trap- 
door, which was the only way of getting on to 
the roof. It was very cold, and the north 
wind was blowing, but they had come there 
because it was one of the few places where 
Mr. Parrot-nose could not possibly come 
creeping up behind them to listen to what 
they were saying. 

"Get her out of the Tower?" Dick 
laughed, and then was sad. " I would we 
could," he said. 

11 We can" said Edred, earnestly. " I've 
been thinking about it all the time, ever 
since we came out of the Tower, and I know 
the way. I shall want you to help me, Dick 
— you and one grown-up." He spoke in 
the same firm, self-reliant tone that was so 
new to him. 

11 One grown-up ? " Dick asked. 

" Yes. / think nurse would do it, and 
I'm going to find out if we can trust her." 

' Trust toE^WPK^H^y, she'd die 



for any of us Ardens, Aye, and die on the 
rack before she would betray the lightest 
word of any of us." 

"Then thats all right," said Edred. 

" What is thy plot ? " Dick asked, and he 
did not laugh, though he wanted to. You 
see, Edred looked so very small and weak, 
and the Tower was so very big and strong. 

" I'm going to get Elfrida out," said Edred, 
"and I'm going to do it like Lady Nithsdale 
got her husband out. It will be quite easy. 
It all depends on knowing when the guard 
is changed, and I do know that." 

11 But how did my Lady Nithsdale get my 
Lord Nithsdale out — and from what ? " Dick 

" Why, out of the Tower— you know," 
Edred was beginning, when he remembered 
that Dick did not know and couldn't know, 
because Lord Nithsdale hadn't yet been 
taken out of the Tower — hadn't even been 
put in ; perhaps, for anything Edred knew, 
wasn't even born yet. So he said : — 

" Never mind ; I'll tell you all about Lady 
Nithsdale," and proceeded to tell Dick, 
vaguely, yet inspiringly, the story of that wise 
and brave lady. / haven't time to tell you 
the story, but any grown-up who knows 
history will be only too pleased to tell it. 

Dick listened with most flattering interest, 
though it was getting dusk, and colder than 
ever. The lights were lighted in the house, 
and the trap-door had become a yellow 
square. A shadow in this yellow square 
warned Dick, and he pinched Edred's arm. 

"Come," he said, "and let us apply our- 
selves to our bocks. Virtuous youths always 
act in their preceptors' absence as they would 
if their preceptors were present. I feel as 
though mine were present. Therefore, I 
take it, I am a virtuous youth " 

On which the shadow disappeared very 
suddenly, and the two boys, laughing in a 
choking inside sort of way, went down to 
learn their lessons by the light of two gutter- 
ing tallow candles in solid silver candlesticks. 

The next day Edred got the old nurse to 
take him to the Court, and because the Queen 
was very fond of Iuidy Arden he actually 
managed to see Her Majesty, and, what is 
more, to get permission to visit his father 
and sister in the Tower. The permission 
was written in the Queen's own hand, and 
bade the Lieutenant of the Tower to admit 
Master Edred Arden and Master Richard 
Arden and an attendant. Then the nurse 
became very busy with sewing, and two 
days went by, and Mr. Parados rapped the 
boys' fingers and scolded them and scowled 

at them — and wondered why they bore it all 
so patiently. 

Then came The Day, and it was bitterly 
cold, and as the afternoon got older snow 
began to fall. 

" So much the better," said the old nurse 
— "so much the better." 

It was at dusk that the guard was changed 
at the Tower gate, and a quarter of an hour 
before dusk Lord Arden's carriage stopped 
at the Tower gate and an old nurse in ruff 
and cap and red cloak got out of it and lifted 
out two little gentlemen— one in black, with 
a cloak trimmed with squirrel fur, which was 
Edred, and another, which was Richard, in 
grey velvet and marten's fur. And the 
Lieutenant was called, and he read the 
Queen's order and nodded kindly to Edred, 
and they all went in. And as they went 
across the yard to the White Tower, where 
Lord Arden's lodging was, the snow fell thick 
on their cloaks and furs and froze to the 
stuff, for it was bitter cold. 

And again : — 

" So much the better," the nurse said — 
" so much the better." 

Elfrida was with Lord Arden — sitting on 
his knee — when the visitors came in. She 
jumped up and greeted Edred with a glad 
cry and a very close hug. 

" Go with nurse," he whispered through 
the hug ; " do exactly what she tells you." 

" But I've made a piece of poetry," Elfrida 
whispered, " and now you're here " 

" Do what you're to/d } " whispered Edred 
in a tone she had never heard from him 
before, and so fiercely that she said no more 
about poetry. " We must get you out of 
this," Edred went on. " Don't be a duffer — 
think of Lady Nithsdale." 

Then Elfrida understood. Her arms fell 
from round Edred's neck, and she ran back 
to Lord Arden and put her arms round his 
neck and kissed him over and over again. 

" There, there, my maid, there, there," he 
said, patting her shoulder softly, for she was 

" Come with me to my chamber," said the 
nurse. " I would take thy measure for a new 
gown and petticoat." 

But Elfrida clung closer. " She does not 
want to leave her dad," said Lord Arden, 
" dost thou, my maid ? " 

" No, no," said Elfrida, quite wildly. " I 
don't want to leave my daddy ! " 

"Come," said Lord Arden, "'tis but for a 
measuring time, and thou'lt come back, sweet 
lamb as thou art Go now, to return the 
more quickly.' 




"Good-bye, dear, dear, dear daddy," said 
Elfrida, suddenly standing up. "Oh, my 
dear daddy, good-bye." 

** Why, what a piece of work about a new 
frock ! " said the nurse, crossly, (< I've no 
patience with 

the child/ 1 and /y 

she caught 
Elfrida's hand 
and dragged her 
into the next 

"Now," she 
whispered, al 
ready on her 
knees undoing 
Elfrida's goivn, 
"not a moment 
to lose. Hold 
thy handkerchief 
to thy face and 
seem to weep as 
we go out. Why, 
thou'rt weeping 
already! So 
much the 
better ! " 

From under 
her wide hoop 
and petticoat 
the nurse drew 
out the clothes 
that were hidden 
there — a little 
suit of black 
exactly like 
Edred's — cap, 
cloak, stockings, 
shoes - all like 
Edred's to a 

And Elfrida, 
before she had 
finished cry i tig, 
stood up, the 
exact image of 
her brother — 

except her face— and that would he hidden 
by the handkerchief. Then, very quickly, 
the nurse wem to the door ot the apartment 
and spoke to the guard there. 

" Good lack, good gentleman," she said, 
" my little master is ill — he is too frail to 
bear these sad meetings and sadder partings, 
Convoy us, I pray you, to the outer gate, that 
I may find our coach and take him home, 
and afterwards I will return for my other 
charge — his noble cousin." 

" Is it so ? " said the guard, kindly, " Poor 

YoL xJtJtvL— 30 


child. Well, such is life, mistress, and we 
all have tears to weep." 

But he could not leave his post at Lord 
Arden's door to conduct them to the gates. 
But he told them the way, and they crossed 

the courtyard 
alone, and as 
they went the 
snow f e 1 1 on 
their cloaks and 
froze there, 

So that the 
guard at the 
gate, who had 
seen an old 
nurse and two 
little boys go in 
through the 
snow, now saw 
an old nurse and 
one little boy go 
out, all snow- 
covered, and the 
little boy ap- 
peared to be cry- 
ing bitterly; and 
no wonder, the 
nurse explained, 
seeing his dear 
father and sister 

lt l will con- 
vey him to our 
coach, good 
masters/' she 
said to the 
guard, "and re- 
turn for my 
other charge, 
young Master 
Richard Arden." 
And on that 
she got Elfrida, 
in her boy's 
clothes, out at 
the gate nnd into 
the waiting car- 
riage. The coachman, by private arrangement 
with the old nurse, was asleep on the box ; 
and the footman, also by previous arrangement, 
was refreshing himself at a tavern near by, 

" Under the seat," said the old nurse, and, 
thrusting Elfrida in, shut the coach door and 
left her. -And there was Elfrida, dressed like 
a hoy, huddled up among the straw at the 
bottom of the coach. 

So far, so good. But the most dangerous 
part of the .adventure still remained. The 
nurse got in auain easily enough ; she was 


will cosvkv nisi to otfK eviACrt, good waster^ sue saip to 
tup, GUAKD." 




let in by the guards who had seen her come 
out. And as she went slowly across the snowy 
courtyard she heard ring under the gateway 
the stamping feet of the men who had come 
to relieve guard and to be themselves the 
new guard. So far, again, so good. The 
danger lay with the guard at the door of 
Lord Arden's rooms, and in the chance that 
some of the old guard might be lingering 
about the gateway when she came out, not 
wiih one little boy as they would expect, but 
with two. But this had to be risked. The 
nurse waited as long as she dared, so as 
to lessen the chance of meeting any of 
the old guard as she went out with her 
charges. She waited quietly in a corner 
while Lord Arden talked with the boys, and 
when at last she said, "The time is done, my 
lord," she already knew that the guard at the 
room door had been changed. 

" So now for it," said Edred, as he and 
Richard followed the nurse down the narrow 
steps and across the snowy courtyard. 

The new guard saw the woman and two 
boys, and the captain of the guard read the 
Queen's paper, which the old nurse had taken 
care to get back from the Lieutenant. And 
as, plainly, Master Edred Arden and Master 
Richard Arden, with their attendant, had 
passed in, so now they were permitted to 
pass out, and two minutes later a great coach 
was lumbering along the snowy streets, and 
inside it four people were embracing in 
rapture at the success of their stratagem. 

" But it was Edred thought of it," said 
Richard, as in honour bound, " and he 
arranged everything and carried it out." 

44 How splendid of him!" said Elfrida, 
warmly ; and I think it was rather splendid 
of her not to spoil his pride and pleasure in 
this the first adventure he had ever planned 
and executed entirely on his own account. 
She could very easily have spoiled it, you 
know, by pointing out to him that the whole 
thing was quite unnecessary, and that they 
could have got away much more easily by 
going on to a corner in the Tower and saying 
poetry to the Mouldiwarp. 

So they came to Arden House. 

The coachman was apparently asleep 
again, and the footman went round and did 
something to the harness after he had got 
the front door opened, and it was quite easy 
for the nurse to send the footman who opened 
the door to order a meal to be served at once 
for Master Edred and Master Richard. So 
that no one saw that, instead of the two little 
boys who had left Arden House in the after- 
noon, three came back to it in the evening. 

Then the nurse took them into the parlour 
and shut the door. 

" Now," she said, 44 Master Richard will go 
take off his fine suit and Miss Arden will go 
into the little room and change her raiment 
And for you, Master Edred, you wait here 
with me." 

When the others had obediently gone the 
nurse stood looking at Edred with eyes that 
grew larger and different, and he stood look- 
ing at her with eyes that grew rounder and 

"Why," he said, at last, "you're the 
witch — the witch we took the tea and 
things to." 

" And if I am?" said she. " Do you think 
you're the only people who can come back 
into other times? You're not all the world 
yet, Master Arden of Arden. But you've got 
the makings of a fine boy and a fine man, 
and I think you've learned something in these 
old ancient times." 

He had. There is not a doubt of it. 
Whether it was being thought important 
enough to be imprisoned in the Tower, or 
whether it was the long talks he had with 
Sir Walter Raleigh, that fine genius and great 
gentleman, or whether it was Mr. Parados's 
knuckle-rappings and scowlings, I do not 
know. But it is certain that this adventure 
was the beginning of the change in Edred 
which ended in his being " brave and kind 
and wise," as the old rhyme had told him 
to be. 

"And now," said the nurse, as Elfrida 
appeared in her girl's clothes, " there is not 
a moment to lose. Already at the Tower 
they have found out our trick. You must go 
back to your own times." 

44 She's the witch," Edred briefly answered 
the open amazement in Llfrida's eyes. 

44 There is no time to lose," the nurse 

"I must be even with old Parados first,"said 
Edred, and so he was ; and it took exactly a 
quarter of an hour, and I will tell you all 
about it afterwards. 

When he was even with old Parados the 
old nurse sent Richard to bed, and then 
Elfrida made haste to say: " I did make 
some poetry to call the Mouldiwarp, but it's 
all about the Tower, and we're not there 
now. It's no use saying 

Oh, Mouldiwarp, you have the power 
To get us out of this bea-tly Tuwer, 

when we're not in the Tower, and I can't 
think of anything else. And " 

But the nurse interrupted her. 

44 Never jnind about poetry," she said : 




"poetry's all very well for children, but I 
know a trick worth two of that" 

She led them into the dining-room — where 
the sideboard stood covered with silver — set 
down the candle, lifted down the great salver 
with the arms of Arden engraved upon it, 
and put it on the table. 

She breathed on the salver and traced 
triangles and a circle on the dulled surface— 
and as the mistiness of her breath faded and 
the silver shone out again undimmed, there, 
suddenly, in the middle of the salver, was the 
live white Mouldiwarp of Arden, looking 
extremely cross ! 

11 You've no manners/' it said to the 

pretend they know everything. If I'd come 
the easy poetry way 1 could have taken 
them back as easily. But now — well, it cant 
be helped. I'll take them back, of course, but 
it'll be a way they won't like. They'll have to 
go on to the top of the roof and jump off." 

" I don't believe that's necessary/' said the 

"All right/' said the Mnuldiwarp ; "get 
them away yourself, then/' and it actually 
began to disappear 

"No, no," said Elfrida ; "we'll do any- 
thing you say." 

" There's a foot of snow on the roof/' said 
the witch-nurse. 


nurse, i4 bringing me here in that off-hand, 
rude way, without * With your leave ! ' or ' By 
your leave ! ' Elfrida could easily have made 
some poetry. You know well enough," it 
added, angrily, "that it's positively painful to 
me to be summoned by your triangles and 
things. Poetry's so easy and simple/' 

11 Poetry's ton slow for this night's work," 
said the nurse, shortly. li Come — take the 
children away— and have done with it" 

" You make everything so difficult," said 
the Movildiwarp, more crossly than ever ; 
w that's the worst of people who think they 
Know a lot and really only know a little, and 

"So much the better/ 1 said the Mnuldi- 
warp; "so much the better. You might to 
know that.' 1 

" You think yourself very clever," said the 

"Not half so clever as I am? said the 
Mouldiwarp, rather unreasonably, Elfrida 
thought. "There!" it added, sharply, as a 
great hammering at the front door shattered 
the quiet of the night "There — to the roof 
for your lives ! And I'm not at all sure that 
it's not too late." 

The knocking was growing louder and 


continued. ) 



[ W& shall it glad to rzeeive Contributions to this section^ and to pay for such as are accented] 
Copyright, ro&S, by George Newnes, Limited. 



ON opening a boiled egg recently I discovered 
several words apparently printed in the white. 
I cut out the portion of the egg and had it photo- 
graphed , and now send you a print. The wording, 
of course, is disconnected, being obviously portions of 
five different lines from a book or paper. No particle 
of the piper remained, but, as may be seen from the 
photograph, the words showed up very distinctly. — 
Mr, Walter Hart, 24, Westgate Street, Gloucester. 

r T % HE accompanying photograph appears to show 
X an ogress, wrapped in a white sheet and with 
bandaged head, keeping guard over a baby. In 

reality it is half of the figure of a young lady wear- 
ing a white apron, who is holding in bei hand the 
child's bonnet, which bears a strange resemblance to 
a face. The baby is Molly Roberts, of Garry duff. — 
Miss Annie II, Waring, Stinimervilic, Enniscorthy, 
c<>. Wexford, Ireland. 


I AM sending you a photograph which may prove 
of interest to readers of TllK Stuani>, and ako 
provide them with no little amusement while trying 
to do the trick themselves. The man seen in the 
picture is merely holding a piece of iron gas- pipe 
and balancing himself on the ledge above the door. 
He may even indulge in a swing without fear of 
falling off. The secret of success is to put all the 
weight on the side nearest the duor, while pushing 
upwards with the hand at the other end of the pipe* 
If an iron pipe is not available, a thirk piece oJ 
wood will do equally well.— Mr, W, V. Wagner, 2, 
Lonjjuevilte Terrace, JViiw Maiden, Surrey* 





THE above illustration shows one of the 
queerest houses in the United States* It is 
four storeys hi^h, yet does not exceed an < ordinary 
cottage in height. It is a (Quaint find picturesque 
combination of many types of architecture, There 
are turrets and domes and hat demented towers, 
windows of all sizes and shapes, even lo round 
openings like cannon -holes, in a warship. Some of 
the windows are scarcely large enough for a face* and 
many window- bo* es are like liny birds' nests. The 
rear' of the house is like a miniature hit from a 
Rhine castle. The house itself is said to have been 
built by a man of small stature and eccentric ideas, 
and a romantic little story is connected with the place. 
When the house was completed -so runs the legend — 
its owner was lonely, and, thinking the mosi expe- 
diii>»us wav to $jet what in: wanted was to advertise in 
the American papers, he in>.erW-d a paragraph under 
the heading *' Wife Wanted/' Scores of letters and 
photographs anived from hopeful divinities. From 
the collection of pictures he selected a l>eautiful face— 

fine that fulfilled his ideal of woman and wife. They 
corresponded and an engagement resulted* The 
prospective bride left her Eastern home and came to 
the eager bridegroom in California. She was a 
magnificent, specimen of womanhood —a modern 
| li no , bat, to the horror and complete despair of the 
now undone bridegroom, she was si\ feet high— for 
him and his house a giantess. Under no possibility 
could he get her into his l * Diamond Castle," This 
was mi insurmountable obstacle to their marriage, 
and with great sadness they held a consultation and 
decided lo part for ever, she taking the return train 
East j leaving orange blossoms and sunshine to face 
snow -drifts and woe, he returning lo his cold, bleak 
hearth alone. — Helen I.uken^ Gaul, 1^2, Fast Walnut 
Street, Pasadena, Cal. 



WJ IKN visiting an 
old farm in the 
fen lands of Cambridge- 
shire I discovered the 
arrangem e ut i 1 Us s r ra ted . 
It is made of tin and 
consists of four hollow 
pillars a Unit a foot in 
height. The pillars 
open iniu the top, which 
is a scjuare iray. At 
the bottom I he pillars 
taper to a V, in the 
l>ase of which are pin- 
holes. What it was used 
for was a puzzle, lu every- 
body for many years, 
I at last found oul that 
the old farmer in his 
younger days made his 
own candles \ he w-as 
a shepherd and obtained 
a good supply of mutton 
fat. A suitable con. on was braided and threaded 
through the tul>es ; they were then filled with melted 
faL When cool the candles were drawn out and used 
in the ordinary wav. — Mr, 1\ K. Salmon, 115, Minard 
Road, Catford, S.E. 


THOUGH not having a single written word 
upon it t this envelope reached me from 
London without delay. The address 1 earls t Miss 
Polly Colyer (Collier)- Kergusson iTir gooM sun), 
T grit ham Mote, Ivy Hatch, Seveimaks, Kent. 
Igh chain Mote is indicated by a small sketch of the 
house itself, which is well known in the county, — 
Miss Colyer- Kergusson, Ighlham Mote, Ivy Hatch, 
near Seven oaks, Kent. 







NOW, my short band- writers 
See this face ? Don't era ; 
For, says Pit man t *'This is 
With a clean -shaved chin." 

— Mr. G. Kennedy Chrystie* 
17, Pierreinont Crescent, 

Pledical ffall i.e. JHoir-usfi-sail 


W& have in our stock 
very much f am one me- 
dicines English, fa- 
shions patent of differ- 
ent diseases which are 
examined several times 
and founded good result 
and new stock to hand 
from Engl And. 


773 The above can filled up with air when 
bird* on catching the top of the Rifle then a sound 
will be lite gun, and can filtad up with small Churn 
and bird^ can die and this very useful for practing 
purposes and also no license are required. 

Ks. 5 each. 

774 Do, Do* for Infants false Rifle, 

Kb, i-S and 2 each. 

Vinolia Tooth Powder— 

The above are fur much useful of tooth pains each phial As 10 

Carbolic tooth powder pure and real 

Do do Unreal 

each tin 


WHILE cycling during my last holiday between 
Colerne and liaih I came across this novel 
use of an old !..» \\ r The leather of the brake was 
worn fjuile away and ihe r rid hoot had been fixed on 
the brake shoe. The top of ihc boot fitted tight over 
the shoe and so kept in position. It had evidently 
been in use for some lime, since the htrel was com- 
pletely worn down where the wheel had rubbed 
against it.— Mr, E. K. L. Taylor, Felsied Schwl, 


LAST summer, while taking some 
flashlight photographs of Mull ion 
(':ive in Cornwall, I obtained the picture 
1 now send you. I had the camera point- 
ing towards the entrance of the cave. 
The ray of sunlight was coming through 
a rift above the entrance* After I had 
fixed up the camera and had opened the 
lens to give an exposure before operating 
the flashlight, I found I had forgotten 
something, and, taking one of my two 
candles to light my way river the rocks, 
I proceeded t-i I he entrance and burl, 
again. 1 never gave a thought as to 
there t^tng any likelihood of its having 
any effect on the film, and I was very 
much surprised, on developing and print- 
ing, to find my erratic journey so clcaily 
shown. — Mr. Leonard Baynes, Capri, 
Jlaldock Road, Letch worth, 11 itehin. 


I AM enclosing three cuttings from a native shop- 
keeper's catalogue. . They are, I think, jewels 
of their kind, and lully l>car out the truth of the sav- 
ing that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. For 
instance, is it not pathetic to know that *' Birds on 
catching the top of the rifle . • * can die"? Also, 
would not the makers of Vinolia Tooth Powder be 
pleased to know that the si nee rest form of flattery is 
onlv worth annas four? -A Reader in India. 






A BLACK snake j over five feet long, was 
found one morning by a rabbittrr in an 
ordinary rabbit irap> and brought into town by 
him exactly as .*hown in the picture* The posi- 
tion of the snake, caught apparently twice, is a 
mystery, but the supposition is that as he was 
gliding over the trap to enter a rabbit burrow 
he suddenly changed his mind and doubled over 


to turn back. Tin- lip of [he gin, which 

bore the single weight without snapping the 

trap, was pressed 

d own when 

the snake put 

two lengths of his 

1 1; iilv LLjum il, and 

thus caught him 

in l be position in 

which ut* find him. 

V o r once the 

sub let y of i be 

serpent was at faull- 

The photograph 

w r as taken by Mr. 

Die U y Park es, 

NAW.- Kcv. K. 

Seymour Smith, 

Rectory, Pa ikes, 

N e u ' South 



NOT many months ago the town of Parkes, New 
South Wales, was visited by a plague of grass- 
hoppers, and I am sending you a photograph which 
will give some idea of what such a visitation means, 
They filled the air and covered the ground, which 
seemed Itleralty Tu move witli them.- Kev. K. Seynnuir 
Smith, Rectory, L*arkes, New South Wales. 


ISRND you an application for leave submitted by 
one of my clerks. Such letters are styled by 
some as 4 " More English as S 1 =e is Wrote," but in this 
case I am afraid it must be, ** More l!n^lish as She is 
Hint ally Murdered," Needless to say, on the strength 
of his application (lie clerk obtained his Leave, but be 
was advised not to " paint tJ his eye. — Mr. T, /^ Oun£ t 
Headquarters Magistrate, Monywa, Burma. 



i$t*^£ vfjSf&di 








TllfS thrushes nest, which is built on the levers of 
;i signal- post T thst caught my eye from the 
carriage window of a train running into Cromer, and 
I have pointed it out lo several passengers at different 
limes. The extraordinary thing about it, however, is 
l hat l he lever actually moved the nest a little each 
time the signal was used, which would be For every 
train running into Cromer Great Kastern Railway 
station. The photograph had to l»e taken from 
the bank of a cutting to enable the eggs lo be 
clearly seen. — Mr. R. M< Ling, North Walsham, 



F a cork ball about an inch in diameter be tied at 
the end of a thread about a foot in length, and 

then swung so that it enters a smooth stream of water 
flowing from a lap at artout three inches from the 
mouth of the latter, it will be found that the boll will 
remain in the water, and that the thread will make an 
angle of about thirty degrees with x verticil line 
passing through the ball. The latter, it should be 
added, must lie thoroughly wetted before this result 
is produced, — Mr* 11* T, Feather, 48, Hill Street, 
St. Albans, Herts. 


TEIE above U the solution to Mr. J, Wallis's 
problem in the last number, which was to 
control every square by using four queens and a 
knight. Uy the publication of this solution the series 
of this class of problem is completed, It has been 
shown that four queens with a rook, bishop, pawn, 
or knight can command the board. There only 
remains the king, who should not be neglected. He 
may lake the place of the pawn in last month's 
position, or he may be placed on a square which is 
obvious in the above. 

Tours in which the knight travels to every square 
of the chessboard in sixty-four moves are familiar, 
but \lr. b VVallis proposes a novelty in which the 
moves are alternately those of a knight and a bishop. 
They leave the bishop's square together, and make 
first a knight's move and then a bishop's move — and 
so on, alternately. On the sixty -fourth move they 
arrive at the square from which they started, having 
stopped on every square on the way. They might 
have started from any square, and either knight or 
bishop might have had the first move. The solution 
will appear next month* 


AST month yon gave an example of a word so 
written that it read the same when turned 


upside down. Such words are very few and far 
between, but I have succeeded in discovering another, 
for which I hope you will be able to find a corner. — 
\Jr, V. K.. Allison, Lawreuceville School, Lawrence- 

viiie, N™Stopetlr«ni 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 




by Google 

Original from 


Vol. XXXV 


No. 213. 

A Reminiscence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 


I.— The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles. 

FIND it recorded in my note- 
book that it was a bleak and 
windy day towards the end 
of March in the year 1892. 
Holmes had received a tele- 
gram whilst we sat at our 
lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He 
made no remark, but the matter remained in 
his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire 
afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking 
his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at 
the message. Suddenly he turned upon me 
with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

"I suppose, Watson, we must look upon 
you as a man of letters," said he " How do 
you define the word * grotesque ' ? " 

" Strange — remarkable," I suggested. 

He shook his head at my definition. 

" There is surely something more than 
that," said he ; " some underlying suggestion 
of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast 
your mind back to some of those narratives 
with which you have afflicted a long-suffering 
public, you will recognise how often the 
grotesque has deepened into the criminal. 
Think of that little affair of the red-headed 
men. That was grotesque enough in the 
outset, and yet it ended in a desperate 
attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was 
that most grotesque affair of the five orange 
pips, which led straight to a murderous con- 
spiracy. The word puts me on the alert." 

44 Have you it there? " I asked. 

He read the telegram aloud. 

" Have just had most incredible and gro- 
tesque experience. May I consult you? — 
Scott Kccles, Post Office, Charing Cross." 

" Man or woman ? " I asked. 

" Oh, man, of course. No woman would 
ever send a reply-paid telegram. She would 
have come." 

Vol. .xxxvi.— 31 

Copyright, 1908, l>y Arthur Conan 

"Will you see him?" 

11 My dear Watson, you know how bored 
I have been since we locked up Colonel 
Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, 
tearing itself to pieces because it is not con- 
nected up with the work for which it was built. 
Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile ; 
audacity and romance seem to have passed 
for ever from the criminal world. Can you 
ask me, then, whether I am ready to look 
into any new problem, however trivial it may 
prove ? But here, unless I am mistaken, is 
our client." 

A measured step was heard upon the 
stairs, and a moment later a stout, tall, grey- 
whiskered and solemnly respectable person 
was ushered into the room. His life history 
was written in his heavy features and pompous 
manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed 
spectacles he was a Conservative, a Church- 
man, a good citizen, orthodox and conven- 
tional to the last degree. But some amazing 
experience had disturbed his native com- 
posure and left its traces in his bristling hair, 
his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried, 
excited manner. He plunged instantly into 
his business. 

" I have had a most singular and unplea- 
sant experience, Mr. Holmes," said he. 
" Never in my life have I been placed in 
such a situation. It is most improper — most 
outrageous. I must insist upon some ex- 
planation." He swelled and puffed in his 

"Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said 
Holmes, in a soothing voice. " May I ask, 
in the first place, why you came to me 
at all?" 

" Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter 
which concerned the police, and yet, when 
you have heard the facts, you must admit 

Doyle, in the TJmier $ta<«» of Anerica, 




that I could not leave it where it was* Private 
detectives are a class with whom I have 
absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, 
having heard your name — — " 

"Quite so, But, in the second place, why 
did you not come at once? " 

li What do you mean ? " 

Holmes glanced at his watch, 

11 It is a quarter- past two," he said- "Your 
telegram was dispatched about one, But no 
one can glance at your toilet and attire with- 
out seeing that your disturbance dates from 
the moment of your waking*" 

Our client smoothed down his unbrushed 
hair and fell his unshaven chin. 

"You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never 
gave a thought to my toilet. 1 was only too 

glad to get out of such a house. But I have 
been running round making inquiries before 
1 came to you. I went to the housu agents, 
you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's 
rent was paid up all right, and that every- 
thing was in order at Wistaria Lodge*" 

"Come, come, sir/ 1 said Holmes, laughing, 
"You are like my friend Dr. Watson, who 
has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong 
end foremost, Please arrange your thoughts 
and let me know, in their due sequence, 
exactly what those events are which have 
sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with 
dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in 
search of advice and assistance." 

Our client looked down with a rueful face 
at his own un conventional appearance. 




"I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. 
Holmes, and I am not aware that in my 
whole life such a thing has ever happened 
before. But I will tell you the whole queer 
business, and when I have done so you will 
admit, I am sure, that there has been enough 
to excuse me." 

But his narrative was nipped in the bud. 
There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson 
opened the door to usher in two robust and 
official-looking individuals, one of whom was 
well known to us as Inspector Gregson of 
Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and, 
within his limitations, a capable officer. He 
shook hands with Holmes, and introduced 
his comrade as Inspector Baynes of the 
Surrey Constabulary. 

" We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, 
and our trail lay in this direction." He 
turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. 
" Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham 
House, Lee ? " 

" I am." 

" We have been following you about all 
the morning." 

" You traced him through the telegram, no 
doubt," said Holmes. 

" Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up 
the scent at Charing Cross Post Office and 
came on here." 

"But why do you follow me? What do 
you want ? " 

" We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, 
as to the events which led up to the death 
last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wistaria 
Lodge, near Esher." 

Our client had sat up with staring eyes 
and every tinge of colour struck from his 
astonished face. 

11 Dead ? Did you say he was dead?" 

"Yes, sir, he is dead." 

" But how ? An accident ? " 

" Murder, if ever there was one upon 

" Good God ! This is awful ! You don't 
mean — you don't mean that I am suspected ?" 

"A letter of yours was found in the dead 
man's pocket, and we know by it that you 
had planned to pass last night at his house." 

"So I did." 

" Oh, you did, did you ? " 

Out came the official note-book. 

"Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock 
Holmes. " All you desire is a plain state- 
ment, is it not ? " 

"And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott 
Eccles that it may be used against him." 

" Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it 
when you entered the room. I think, Watson, 

a brandy and soda would do him no harm. 
Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice 
of this addition to your audience, and that 
you proceed with your narrative exactly as 
you would have done had you never been 

Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and 
the colour had returned to his face. With a 
dubious glance at the inspector's note-book, 
he plunged at once into his extraordinary 

" I am a bachelor," said he, " and, being 
of a sociable turn, I cultivate a large number 
of friends. Among these are the family of 
a retired brewer called Melville, living at 
Albemarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at 
his table that I met some weeks ago a young 
fellow named Garcia. He was, I under- 
stood, of Spanish descent and connected in 
some way with the Embassy. He spoke 
perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, 
and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in 
my life. 

" In some way w r e struck up quite a friend- 
ship, this young fellow and I. He seemed 
to take a fancy to me from the first, and 
within two days of our meeting he came to 
see me at Lee. One thing led to another, 
and it ended in his inviting me out to spend 
a few days at his house, Wistaria Lodge, 
between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday 
evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engage- 

"He had described his household to me 
before I went there. He lived with a 
faithful servant, a countryman of his own, 
who looked after all his needs. This fellow 
could speak English and did his house- 
keeping for him. Then there was a wonderful 
cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had 
picked up in his travels, who could serve 
an excellent dinner. I remember that he 
remarked what a queer household it was to 
find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed 
with him, though it has proved a good deal 
queerer than I thought. 

" I drove to the place — about two miles 
on the south side of Esher. The house was 
a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, 
with a curving drive which was banked with 
high evergreen shrubs. It was an old, tumble- 
down building in a crazy state of disrepair. 
When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown 
drive in front of the blotched and weather- 
stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom 
in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. 
He opened the door himself, however, and 
greeted me with a great show of cordiality. 

I uWM , fb«^.* raan - servant ' a 



melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the 
way, my bag in his hand, to my bedroom. 
The whole place was depressing. Our 
dinner was tete-a-tete, and though my host did 
his best to be entertaining, his thoughts 
seemed to continually wander, and he talked 
so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly 
understand him. He continually drummed 
his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, 
and gave other signs of nervous impatience. 
The dinner itself was neither well served nor 
well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the 
taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. * 
I can assure you that many times in the 
course of the evening I wished that I could 
invent some excuse which would take me 
back to Lee. 

"One thing comes back to my memory 
which may have a bearing upon the business 
that you two gentlemen are investigating. I 
thought nothing of it at the time. Near the 
end of dinner a note was handed in by the 
servant. I noticed that after my host had 
read it he seemed even more distrait and 
strange than before. He gave up all pre- 
tence at conversation and sat, smoking 
endless cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, 
but he made no remark as to the contents. 
About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some 
time later Garcia looked in at my door — the 
room was dark at the time — and asked me if 
I had rung. I said that I had not. He 
apologized for having disturbed me so late, 
saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I 
dropped off after this and slept soundly all 

" And now I come to the amazing part of 
my tale. When I awoke it was broad day- 
light. I glanced at my watch, and the time 
was nearly nine. I had particularly asked to 
be called at eight, so I was very much 
astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up 
and rang for the servant. There was no 
response. I rang again and again, with the 
same result. Then I came to the conclusion 
that the bell was out of order. I huddled 
on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an 
exceedingly bad temper to order some hot 
water. You can imagine my surprise when 
I found that there was no one there. I 
shouted in the hall. There was no answer. 
Then I ran from room to room. All were 
deserted. My host had shown me which 
was his bedroom the night before, so I 
knocked at the door. No reply. I turned 
the handle and walked in. The room was 
empty, and the bed had never been slept in. 
He had gone with the rest. The foreign 
host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook T 

all had vanished in the night ! That was the 
end of my visit to Wistaria Lodge." 

Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands 
&nd chuckling as he added this bizarre in- 
cident to his collection of strange episodes. 

"Your experience is, so far as I know, 
perfectly unique," said he. " May I ask, 
sir, what you did then ? " 

" I was furious. My first idea was that I 
had been the victim of some absurd practical 
joke. I packed my things, banged the hall 
door behind me, and set off for Esher, with' 
my bag in my hand. I called at Allan 
Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, 
and found that it was from this firm that the 
villa had been rented. It struck me that the 
whole proceeding could hardly be for the 
purpose of making a fool of me, and that the 
main object must be to get out of the rent. 
It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. 
But this theory would not work. The agent 
was obliged to me for my warning, but told 
me that the rent had been paid in advance. 
Then I made my way to town and called at 
the Spanish Embassy. The man was unknown 
there. After this I went to see Melville, at 
whose house I had first met Garcia, but I 
found that he really knew rather less about 
him than I did. Finally, when I got your 
reply to my wire I came out to you, since I 
understand that you are a person who gives 
advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. 
Inspector, I understand, from what you said 
when you entered the room, that you can 
carry the story on, and that some tragedy has 
occurred. I can assure you that every word 
I have said is the truth, and that, outside of 
what I have told you, I know absolutely 
nothing about the fate of this man. My 
only desire is to help the law in every 
possible way." 

" I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles — I am 
sure of it," said Inspector Gregson, in a very 
amiable tone " I am bound to say that 
everything which you have said agrees very 
closely with the facts as they have come to 
our notice. For example, there was that 
note which arrived during dinner. Did you 
chance to observe what became of it? " 

"Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and 
threw it into the fire." 

" What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes ? " 

The country detective was a stout, puffy, 
red man, whose face was only redeemed 
from grossness by two extraordinarily bright 
eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases 
of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he 
drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper 

fromhi VBSg 5 |tY OF MICHIGAN 



44 It was a clog grate, Mr. Holmes, and he 
overpitched it 1 picked this out unburned 
from the back of it." 

Holmes smiled his appreciation, 
14 You must have examined the house very 
carefully, to find a single pellet of paper/' 

right, green baize* God speed. D. 1 It is a 
woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed 
pen, but the address is either done with 
another pen or by someone else. It is 
thicker and bolder, as you see." 

" A very remarkable note," said Holmes, 

1 tT was a DOC-GSATB, sir* 

iiolmj-s, am> lit: ovKFtrE rciinn IT< 



M I did, Mr. Holmes* It's my way* Shall 
I read it, Mr. Gregson ?" 

The Londoner nodded. 

"The note is written upon ordinary cream- 
laid paper without watermark, It is a quarter- 
sheet. The pa[x?r is cut off in two snips with 
a short b laded scissors. It has been folded 
over three times and sealed with purple wax, 
put on hurriedly and pressed down with some 
flat, oval object. It is addressed to Mr, 
Garcia, Wistaria Lodge. It says : *Our own 
colours, green and white. Green open, white 
shut, Main stair, first corridor, seventh 

glancing it over. " I must compliment you, 
Mr. Raynes, upon your attention to detail 
in your examination of it. A few trifling 
points might be added. The oval seal is 
undoubtedly a plain sleeve link— what else 
is of such a shape ? The scissors were bent 
nail-scissors- Short as the tw + o snips are, 
you can distinctly see the same slight curve 
in each." 

The country detective chuckled* 

" I thought I had squeezed all the juice 

out of ffirfeHfeiSlfr8rfh ert: was a ' ltl:ie over *" 

to^fffr Kraft* "* that ' ™ k * 



nothing of the note except that there was 
something on hand, and that a woman, as 
usual, was at the bottom of it." 

Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat 
during this conversation. 

" I am glad you found the note, since it 
corroborates my story," said he. " But I beg 
to point out that I have not yet heard what 
has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has 
become of his household. " 

"As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is 
easily answered. He was found dead this 
morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly 
a mile from his home. His head had been 
smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sand- 
bag or some such instrument, which had 
crushed rather than wounded. It is a 
lonely corner, and there is no house within 
a quarter of a milS of the spot. He had 
apparently been struck down first from 
behind, but his assailant had gone on beat- 
ing him long after he was dead. It was a 
most furious assault. There are no foot- 
steps nor any clue to the criminals." 


" No, there was no attempt at robbery." 

"This is very painful — very painful and 
terrible," said Mr. Scott Eccles, in a 
querulous voice ; " but it is really uncom- 
monly hard upon me. I had nothing to 
do with my host going off upon a nocturnal 
excursion and meeting so sad an end. How 
do I come to be mixed up with the cass ? " 

"Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes 
answered. "The only document found in 
the pocket of the deceased was a letter 
from you saying that you would be with 
him on the night of his death. It was the 
envelope of this letter which gave us the 
dead man's name and address. It was after 
nine this morning when we reached his 
house and found neither you nor anyone else 
inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you 
down in London while I examined Wistaria 
Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. 
Gregson, and here we are." 

" I think now," said Gregson, rising, " we 
had best put this matter into an official shape. 
You will come round with us to the station, 
Mr. Scott Kccles, and let us have your state- 
ment in writing." 

" Certainly, I will come at once. But I 
retain your services, Mr. Holmes. I desire 
you to spare no expense and no pains to get 
at the truth." 

My friend turned to the country inspector. 

" I suppose that you have no objection to 
my collaborating with you, Mr. Baynes ? " 

" Highly honoured, sir, I am sure." 


" You appear to have been very prompt 
and businesslike in all that you have done. 
Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the 
exact hour that the man met his death ? " 

" He had been there since one o'clock. 
There was rain about that time, and his 
death had certainly been before the rain." 

" But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. 
Baynes," cried our client. " His voice is un- 
mistakable. I could swear to it that it was 
he who addressed me in my bedroom at that 
very hour." 

"Remarkable, but by no means impos- 
sible," said Holmes, smiling. 

" You have a clue ? " asked Gregson. 

"On the face of it the case is not a very 
complex one, though it certainly presents 
some novel and interesting features. A 
further knowledge of facts is necessary 
before I would venture to give a final and 
definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, 
did you find anything remarkable besides 
this note in your examination of the house ? " 

The detective looked at my friend in a 
singular way. 

" There were," said he, " one or two very 
remarkable things. Perhaps when I have 
finished at the police-station you would care 
to come out and give me your opinion of 

" I am entirely at your service," said 
Sherlock Holmes, ringing the bell. "You 
will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, 
and kindly send the boy with this telegram. 
He is to pay a five-shilling reply." 

We sat for some time in silence after our 
visitors had left. Holmes smoked hard, with 
his brows drawn down over his keen eyes, 
and his head thrust forward in the eager way 
characteristic of the man. 

"Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly 
upon m,, " what do you make of it ? " 

" I can make nothing of this mystification 
of Scott Eccles." 

" But the crime ? " 

" Well, taken with the disappearance of 
the man's companions, I should say that they 
were in some way concerned in the murder 
and had fled from justice." 

" That is certainly a possible point of view. 
On the face of it you must admit, however, 
that it is very strange that his two servants 
should have been in a conspiracy against 
him and should have attacked him on the 
one night when he had a guest. They had 
him alone at their mercy every other night 
in the week." 

" Then why did they fly ? " 

" Quite sdOri tffchy cVd they fly ? There is 




a big fact. Another big fact is the remark- 
able experience of our client, Scott Eccles. 
Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits 
of human ingenuity to furnish an explanation 
which would cover both these big facts? If 
it were one which would also admit of the 
mysterious note with its very curious phrase- 
ology* w hy, then it would be worth accepting 
as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts 
which come to our knowledge all fit them- 
selves into the scheme, then our hypothesis 
may gradually become a solution." 
44 But what is our hypothesis?" 
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half- 
closed eyes. 

44 You must admit, my dear Watson, that 
the idea of a joke is impossible. There were 
grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, 
and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wistaria 
Lodge had some connection with them." 
44 But what possible connection ? " 
44 Let us take it link by link. There is, on 
the face of it, something unnatural about this 
strange and sudden friendship between the 
young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was 
the former who forced the pace. He called 
upon Eccles at the other end of London on 
the very day after he first met him, and he 
kept in close touch with him until he got 
him down to Esher. Now, what did he want 
with Eccles ? What could Eccles supply ? I 
see no charm in the man. He is not particu- 
larly intelligent -not a man likely to be con 
genial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, 
was he picked out from all the other people 
whom Garcia met as particularly suited to 
his purpose ? Has he any one outstanding 
quality ? I say that he has. He is the very 
type of conventional British respectability, and 
the very man as a witness to impress another 
Briton. You saw yourself how neither of 
the inspectors dreamed of questioning his 
statement, extraordinary as it was." 
44 But what was he to witness ? " 
44 Nothing, as things turned out, but every- 
thing had they gone another way. That is 
how I read the matter." 

44 1 see, he might have proved an alibi." 
44 Exactly, my dear Watson ; he might 
have proved an alibi. We will suppose, for 
argument's sake, that the household of 
Wistaria Lodge are confederates in some 
design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is 
to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. 
By some juggling of the clocks it is quite 
possible that they may have got Scott Eccles 
to bed earlier than he thought, but in any 
case it is likely that when Garcia went out of 

his way to tell him that it was one it 

VoL xxxvi-32. 


really not more than twelve. If Garcia 
could do whatever he had to do and be back 
by the hour mentioned he had evidently a 
powerful reply to any accusation. Here was 
this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear 
in any court of law that the accused was in 
his house all the time. It was an insurance 
against the worst." 

" Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the 
disappearance of the others ? " 

44 1 have not all my facts yet, but 1 do not 
think there are any insuperable difficulties. 
Still, it is an error Jo argue in front of your 
data You find yourself insensibly twisting 
them round to fit your theories." 

44 And the message ? " 

44 How did it run? 4 Our own colours, 
green and white/ Sounds like racing. 
4 Green open, white shut.' T|iat is clearly 
a signal. 4 Main stair,* first corridor, seventh 
right, green baize.' This is an assignation. 
We may find a jealous husband at the 
bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous 
quest. She would not have said 4 God 
speed* had it not been so. 4 IV — that 
should be a guide." 

44 The man was a Spaniard. I suggest 
that 4 D ' stands for Dolores, a common 
female name in Spain." 

44 Good, Watson, very good — but quite 
inadmissible. A Spaniard would write to a 
Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this 
note is certainly English. Well, we can only 
possess our souls in patience, until this 
excellent inspector comes back for us. 
Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate 
which has rescued us for a few short hours 
from the insufferable fatigues of idleness." 

An answer had arrived to Holmes's tele- 
gram before our Surrey officer had returned 
Holmes read it, and was about to place it in 
his note-book when he caught a glimpse of 
my expectant face. He tossed it across with 
a laugh. 

44 We are moving in exalted circles," said 

The telegram was a list of names and 
addresses : " Lord Harringby, The Dingle ; 
Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers ; Mr. 
Hynes Hynes, J. P., Purdey Place; Mr. 
James Baker Williams, Forton Old Hall ; 
Mr. Henderson, High Gable ; Rev. Joshua 
Stone, Nether Walsling." 

44 This is a very obvious way of limiting 
our field of operations," said Holmes. 44 No 
doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, 
has already adopted some similar plan." 

44 1 don't quite understand." 





"Well, my dear fellow, we have already 
arrived at the conclusion that the message 
received by Garcia at dinner was an appoint 
ment or an assignation. Now, if the obvious 
reading of it is correct, and in order to keep 
this tryst one has to ascend a main stair and 
seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is per 
fectly clear that the house is a very large one. 
It is equally certain that this house cannot be 
more than a mile or two from Oxshott, since 
Garcia was walking in that direction, and 
hoped j according to my reading of the facts, 
to be back in Wistaria Lodge in time to avail 
himself of an alibi, which would only be valid 
up to one o'clock. As the number of large 
houses close to Oxshott must be limited* I 
adopted the obvious method of sending to 

the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and 
obtaining a list of them. Here they are in 
this telegram, and the other end of our 
tangled skein must lie among them/' 

It was nearly six o'clock before we found 
ourselves in the pretty Surrey village of Esher, 
with Inspector Baynes as our companion* 

Holmes and I had taken things for the 
night, and found comfortable quarters at the 
Bull- Finally we set out in the company 
of the detective on our visit to Wistaria 
Lodge. It was a cold, dark March evening, 
with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating 
upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild 
common over whirh our road passed and the 
tragic goal to which it led us. 

{To h concluded.) 

by Google 

Original from 





■ J*" 

■UK*' 1 ^t"T A— ■ 

^^^^^^^W^ ^^H*' -q ^* 5 








OW the reader must really look 
at the map. To this point we 
have proceeded by train and 
steamer with all the power and 
swiftness of modem communi- 
cation. If we have traversed 
wild and lonely lands, it has been in a rail- 
way carriage. We have disturbed the lion 
with the locomotive, and all our excursions 
have but led back to the iron road. But at 
Ripon Falls we are to let go our hold upon 
machinery, Steam and all it means is to 
be shut off. We are "to cut the painter," 
arid, losing the impulsion of the great ship, 
are for awhile to paddle about upon a vast 
expanse in a little cock-boat of our own. 
Back towards Mombasa, three days' journey 
will cover nine hundred miles. Forward, 
you will be lucky to make forty in the' same 
time. Return at this moment is swift and 
easy. In a week it will be perhaps im- 
possible. Going on means going through. 

Everywhere great pathways are being cut 
into Africa- We have followed for nearly a 
thousand miles one leading from the East 
towards the centre. Far away from the 
North another line has been thrust forward 
by British efforts in peace and war. From 
Alexandria to Cairo, from Cairo to Wady 
Haifa, from Haifa to Berber, from Berber 

Copyright t 1 9°fti by W 

to Khartoum, from Khartoum to Fashoda, 
from Fashoda to Gondokoro, over a dis- 
tance of nearly three thousand miles, 
stretches an uninterrupted service of trains 
and steamers. But between the landing- 
stage at Jinja and the landing - stage at 
Gondokoro there opens a wide gulf of yet 
unbridged, uncon([uered wilderness and 
jungle, across which and through which the 
traveller must crawl painfully and at a foot's 
pace, always amid difficulty and never wholly 
without danger. It is this gulf which we are 
now to traverse. 

The distance from the Victoria to the 
Albert Nyanza is about two hundred miles 
in the direct line, and it is all downhill. 
The Great I^ike is hoisted high above the 
highest hill-tops of England* From this vast 
elevated inland sea the descending Nile 
water flows through a channel of three 
thousand five hundred miles into the Medi- 
terranean, The first and steepest stage of 
its journey is to the Albert Lake. This 
second body of water, which, except in com- 
parison with the Victoria N van/a, would be 
impressive — it is more than a hundred miles 
long — lies at an altitude of two thousand three 
hundred feet above the sen. So that in its first 
two hundred miles the Nile exhausts in the 
exuberant improvidence of youth about a third 


2 5 2 


of the impulse which is to carry it through 
its venerable careen Yet this considerable 
descent of twelve hundred feet is itself 
accomplished in two short steps. There is 
one series of rapids, thirty miles lung, below 
the Ripon Falls, and another of equal extent 
above the Murchison Kails. Between these 

times for months. Me learns to think often 
days' "Safari" as we at home think of going 
to Scotland, and twenty days' "Safari "as if 
it were less than the journey to Paris. 
"Safari" is itself a Swahili word of Arabic 
origin, meaning an expedition and all that 
pertains to it. It comprises yourself and 

Frutn ttj I N l 

two declivities long ranches of open river 
and the wide, level expanse of I^ake Chioga 
afford a fine waterway. 

Our journey from one Great Lake to the 
other divided itself therefore into three 
stages. Three marches through the forest to 
Kakindu, the first point where the Victoria 
Nile is navigable after the rapids ; three days 
in canoes along the Nile and across Lake 
Chioga ; and, lastly, five marches front the 
western end of Lake Chioga to the Albert 
Nyanza. Beyond this, again, four days in 
canoes and steel sailing boats, towed by a 
launch, would carry us To Nimule, where the 
rapids on the White Nile begin, and in seven 
or eight marches from there we should reach 
the Soudan steamers at Gondokoro, About 
five hundred miles would thus be covered 
in twenty days. It would take about the 
same tirne T if trains and steamers fitted 
exactly, to return by Mombasa and Suez to 

Early in the morning of November 2 yd 
our party set off upon this journey* Travel- 
ling by marches from camp to camp plays a 
regular part in the life of the average Central 
African officer. He goes "on Safari " as the 
Boer "on trek, + It is a recognised slate of 
being, which often lasts for weeks, 

and -„„,, 

MP* U 'holograph 

everybody and everything yon take with you 
— food, tents, rifles, clothing, cooks, servants, 
escort, porters —but especially porters. Out of 
the range of steam the porter is the primary 
factor. This ragged figure, tottering along 
under his load, is the unit of locomotion 
and the limit of possibility. Without 
porters you cannot move, With them you 
move ten or twelve miles a day, if all is well. 
How much can he carry? How far can he 
carry it P These are the questions which 
govern alike your calculations and your fate. 
Every morning the porters are divided into 
t>atchcs of about twenty, each under its head- 
man. The loads, which are supposed to 
average about sixty-five pounds are also 
roughly parcelled out As each batch starts 
off, the next rushes up to the succeed^ 
ing heap of loads, and there is a quarter 
of an hour of screaming and pushing — the 
strongest men making a bee line for the 
lightest looking loads, and being beaten off 
by the grim but voluble headman, the 
weakest weeping feebly beside a mountain- 
ous pile, till a distribution has been achieved 
with rough justice, and the troop in its turn 
marches off with indescribable ulu kit inns 
testifying and ministering to the spirit in which 
they mean to accomplish ::ie day's journey. 



2 53 

While these problems were being imper- 
fectly solved I walked down with the 
Governor and one of the Engineer officers 
to the Ripon Falls, which arc hut half a mile 
from the Commissioner's house, and the 
sound of whose waters filled the air. 
Although the cataract is on a moderate 
scale, both in height and volume, its aspect 
— arid still more its situation — is impressive, 
The exit or overflow of the Greal Lake is 
closed by a natural rampart or ridge of black 
rock, broken or worn away in two main gaps 
to release the waters Through these the 
Nile leaps at once into majestic being, and 
enters upon its course as a perfect river three 
hundred yards wide* Standing upon the 
reverse side of the wall of rock, one's eye may 
be almost on a plane with the shining levels 
of the Lake. At your very feet, literally a yard 
away, a vast green slope of water races down- 
ward- Below are foaming rapids, fringed by 
splendid trees, and pools from which great 
fish leap continually in the sunlight 

We must have spent three hours watching 
the waters and revolving plans to harness and 
bridle them. So much power running to 

and we must pad after them through the 
full blaze of noon. The Governor of 
Uganda and his officers have to return to 
Entebbe by the steamer, so it is here I hid 
them good-bye and good luck, and with a 
final look at Ripon Kails, gleaming and re- 
sounding below, I climb the slopes of the 
river bank and walk off into the forest. 

The native path struck off north-east from 
the Nile, and led into a hilly and densely- 
wooded region. The elephant grass on each 
side of the track rose fifteen feet high, In 
the valleys great trees grew and arched above 
our heads t laced and twined together with 
curtains of flowering creepers. Here and 
there a glade opened to the right or left, and 
patches of vivid sunlight splashed into the 
gloom. Around the crossings of little streams 
butterflies danced in brilliant ballets. Many 
kinds of birds flew about the trees. The 
jungle was haunted by game -utterly lost 
in its dense entanglements. And I think 
it a sensation all by itself to walk on your 
own feet, and staff in hand, along these 
mysterious paths, amid so beautiful, yet 
sinister, surroundings, and realize that one is 

fi'rvmit] MR. FiSHbQl/KNt, K.E. li'hutvffftlph, 

waste, such a coign of vantage unoccupied, 
such a lever to control the natural forces of 
Africa ungripped, cannot but vex and stimu- 
late imagination. And what fun to make 
the immemorial Nile begin its journey by 
dhing through a turbine! But to our tale. 
The porters had by now got far on their road, 

really in the centre of Africa, and a long way 
from Piccadilly or Pall Mall. 

Our first march was about fourteen miles, 
and as we had not started till the hot hours 
of the day were upon us, it was enough and 
to spare so far as I was concerned. Up and 
down hill w&nrieied our path, now plunged 




in the twilight of a forest valley, now winding 
up the side of a scorched hill, and I had for 
some time been hoping to see the camp 
round every corner, when at last we reached 
it It consisted of two rows of green tents 
and a large M banda," or rest-house, as big 
as a large barn in England, standing in a 
nice, trim clearing. These " bandas " are 
a great feature of African travel ; and the 

is almost invariably caught from sleeping in 
old shelters or on disused camping grounds. 
The local chief was not long in making his 
appearance with presents of various kinds, 
A lanky, black faced sheep, with a fat tail as 
big as a pumpkin, was dragged forward, bleat- 
ing, by two retainers* Others brought live 
hens and earthenware jars of milk and baskets 
of little round eggs. The chief was a tall, 

>ivwi a\ 


dutiful chief through whose territory we were 
passing had taken pains to make them on 
the most elaborate scale. They are built of 
bamboo framework, supported upon a central 
row of Y-shaped tree stems, with a high- 
pitched roof heavily thatched with elephant 
grass, and walls of wattled reeds. The 
floors are beautifully smooth and clean, 
and strewn with fresh green rushes ; the 
interior is often cunningly divided into 
various apartments, and the main building is 
connected with kitchens and offices of the 
same unsubstantial texture by veranda-shaded 
passages, In fact, they evidence a high degree 
of social knowledge and taste in the natives, 
who make them with almost incredible 
rapidity from the vegetation of the surround- 
ing jungle ; and the sensation of entering one 
of these lofty, dim, cool, and spacious 
interiors, and sinking into the soft rush bed 
of the floor, with something to drink which is, 
at any rate, not tepid, well repays the severities 
of a march under an Equatorial sun. The 
" handa," however, is a luxury of which the 
traveller should beware, for if it has stood 
for more than a week it becomes the home 
of innumerable insects, many of approved 
malevolence and venom, and spirillum fever 

intelligent -looking man, with the winning 
smile and attractive manners characteristic of 
the country, and made his salutations w T ith 
a fine a:r of dignity and friendship. 

Life " on Safari " is rewarded by a sense of 
completeness and self-satisfied detachment. 
You have got to "do" so many miles a day, 
and when you have "done" them your day's 
work is over- *Tis a simple programme, 
which leaves nothing more to be demanded 
or desired. Very early in the morning, often 
an hour before daybreak, the bugles of 
the King^s African Rifles sounded reveille. 
Everyone dresses hurriedly by candlelight, 
eats a dim breakfast while dawn approaches; 
tents collapse, and porters struggle off with 
their burdens. Then the march begins. 
The obvious thing is to walk, There is no 
surer way of keeping well in Uganda than 
to walk twelve or fourteen miles a day. But 
if the traveller will not make the effort, there 
are alternatives. There is the rickshaw, 
which was described in the last chapter- 
restful, but tedious ; and the litter, carried on 
the heads of six porters of different sizes, and 
shifted every now and then, with a dishearten- 
ing jerk, to their shoulders and back again - 
this is quite WflHMmfortable as it sounds. 




Ponies cannot, or at least do not, live in 
Uganda, though an experiment was just 
about to be made with them by the Chief of 
the Police, who is convinced that with really 
careful stable management, undertaken in 
detail by the owner himself, they could be 
made to flourish. Mules have a better 
chance, though still not a good one, We 
took one with us on the last spell of "Safari" 
to (Jondokoro, and were told it was sure to 
die ; but we left it in apparently excellent 
condition and spirits. 

But the best of all methods of progression 
in Central Africa — however astonishing it 
mny seem —is the bicycle* In the dry 
season the paths through the bush, smoothed 
by the feet of natives, afford an excellent sur- 
face. Even when the track is only two feet 
wide t and when the densest jungle rises on 
either side and almost meets above the head, 
the bicycle skims along, swishing through the 
grass and brushing the encroaching bushes, 
at a fine pace ; and although at every few 
hundred yards sharp rocks, loose stones, a 
watercourse, or a steep hill compel dis- 
mounting, a good seven miles an hour can 
usually be maintained. And think what 
this means. From my own experience 
I should suppose that with a bicycle twenty- 
five to thirty miles a day could regularly be 
covered in Uganda, and if only the porters 
could keep up, all journeys could be 
nearly trebled, and every white officer's 
radius of action proportionately increased 

Nearly all the British officers I met already 
possessed and used bicycles, and even the 
native chiefs are beginning to acquire them. 
But what is needed to make the plan effective 
is a good system of stone, fumigated, insect- 
proof rest-houses at stages of thirty miles on 
all 1 he main lines of communication. Such 
a development would mean an enormous 
saving in the health of white officials and a 
valuable accession to their power. Had I 
known myself before coming to Uganda 
the advantages which this method presents, 
1 should have been able to travel far more 
widely through the country by the simple 
expedient of trebling the stages of my 
journeys, and sending porters on a week in 
advance to pitch camps and deposit food at 
wide intervals. And then, instead of merely 
journeying from one Great Lake tcj the other^ 
1 could, within tht same iitnits of Ume^ have 
explored the fertile and populous plateau of 
Toro, descended the beautiful valley or the 
Semliki, and traversed the Albert Lake from 
end to end, and skirted the slopes of 
RuenzorL If youth but knew , . . ! 

But the march j however performed, has its 
termination ; and if, as is recommended, you 
stop to breakfast and rest upon the way, the 
new camp will be almost ready upon arrival 
During the heat of the day everyone retires 
to his tent or to the more effective shelter of 
the " banda," to read and sleep till the 
evening. Then as the sun gets low we 
emerge to smoke and talk, and there is, 

I lib HEAT Ut L II K UAV IrVhltW 

Diqitized by v-V 

^if^TO ins TENT OR IO 1 l*S WW fit 'ft^JITP *HELTfcR UK THE * I1AWOA. 

•^University of Michigan 



perhaps, just time for the energetic to pursue 
an antelope, or shoot a few guinea fowl or 

With the approach of twilight comes the 
mosquito, strident voiced and fever-bearing; 
and the most thorough precautions have to 
be taken against him and other insect dangers. 
We dine in a large mosquito -house made 
entirely of fine gauze, and about twelve feet 
cubically. The bedding, which should if 
possible be packed in tin boxes, is unrolled 
during the day, and carefully protected by 
mosquito-nets well tucked in, against all forms 
of vermin. Everyone puts on mosquito-boots, 
long, soft, leather leggings, reaching to the 
hips. You are recommended not to sit on 
cane-bottomed chairs without putting a news- 
paper or a cushion on them, to wear a cap, 
a scarf, and possibly gloves, and to carry 
a swishing mosquito trap. Thus one moves, 
comparatively secure, amid a chorus of 
ferocious buzzings. 

To these precautions are added others. 
You must never walk barefoot on the floor, 
no matter how clean it is, or an odious worm, 
called a "jigger," will enter your foot to 
raise a numerous family and a painful 
swelling. On the other hand, be sure when 
you put on boots or shoes that, however 
hurried, you turn them upside down and 
look inside, lest a scorpion, a small snake, or 
a perfectly frightful kind of centipede may 
be lying in ambush. Never throw your 
clothes carelessly upon the ground, but put 
them away at once in a tin box, and shut it 
tight, or a perfect colony of fierce-biting 
creatures will beset them. And, above all, 
quinine ! To the permanent resident in 
these strange countries no drug can be of 
much avail ; for either its protection is 
diminished with habit, or the doses have to 
be increased to impossible limits. But the 
traveller who is passing through on a 
journey of only a few months may recur 
with safety and with high advantage to that 
admirable prophylactic. Opinions differ as 
to how it should be taken. The Germans,^ 
with their love of exactness even in regard to 
the most uncertain things, prescribe thirty 
grains on each seventh day and eighth day 
alternately. We followed a simpler plan of 
taking a regular ten grains every day, from 
the moment we left Port Said till we arrived 
at Khartoum. No one in my party suffered 
from fever even for a day during the whole 

Our second day's march was about the 
same in length and character, except that we 
were nearer the river, and as the path led 

through the twilight of the forest we saw 
every now and then a gleam of broad waters 
on our left. At frequent intervals — five or 
six times during the day — long caravans of 
native porters were met carrying the produce 
of the fertile districts between Lake Chioga 
and Mount Elgon into Jinja. Nothing 
could better show the need of improved 
communications than this incipient and 
potential trade — ready to begin and thrusting 
forward along bush paths on the heads of 
tottering men. For the rest, the country 
near the river seemed the densest and most 
impenetrable jungle, hiding in its recesses 
alike its inhabitants and its game. 

The third morning, however, brought us 
among "shambas," as the patches of native 
cultivation are called ; and the road was 
among plantations of bananas, millet, cotton, 
castor oil, and chilies. Here in Usoga, as 
throughout Uganda, the one staple crop is 
the banana ; and as this fruit, when once 
planted, grows and propagates of its own 
accord, requiring no thought or exertion, it 
finds special favour with the improvident 
natives, and sustains them year after year in 
leisured abundance, till a sudden failure and 
a fearful famine restore the harsh balances of 
the world. 

After a tramp of twelve miles, and while it 
was still comparatively early — for we had 
started before dawn — we reached Kakindu. 
The track led out of the forest of banana 
groves downwards into more open spaces and 
blazing sunlight, and there before us was the 
Nile. Already— forty miles from its source, 
near four thousand from its mouth — it was a 
noble river — nearly a third of a mile in breadth 
of clear, deep water rolling forward majesti- 
cally between banks of foliage and verdure. 
The " Chioga flotilla," consisting of the small 
steam launch, Victoria, a steel boat, and two 
or three dug-out canoes, scooped out of tree 
trunks, awaited us ; and after the long, hot 
business of embarking the baggage and 
crowding the native servants in among it 
was completed, we parted from our first 
relay of escorts and porters, and drifted out 
on the flood. 

The next three days of our life were spent 
on the water — first cruising down the 
Victoria Kile till it flows into Chioga, and 
then traversing the smooth, limpid expanses 
of that lake. Every evening we landed at 
camps prepared by the B usoga chiefs, pitched 
our tents, lighted our fires, and erected our 
mosquito-houses, while dusk drew on, and 
thunderstorms -frequent at this season of 

,heyea M , ffiRV'flF v (HifHf(5)ffi dour aboul 



t'rvm a] 

*' Lull I.I. A UN THE NICK. 


the dark horizon. All through the hot hours 
of the day one lay at the bottom of massive 
canoes, sheltered from the sun by an im- 
provised rouf of rushes and wet grass. From 
lime to time a strange bird, or, better still, 
the rumour of a hippo— nose just peeping 
above the water- -enlivened the slow and 
sultry passage of the hours ; and one great 
rock, crowded with enormous crocodiles, all 
of whom a score at least leaped together 

into the water at the first shot, afforded at 
least one really striking spectacle. 

As the Victoria Nile approaches Lake 
Chioga, it broadens out into wide lagoons, 
and the sloping banks of forest and jungle 
give place to unbroken walls of papyrus reeds, 
behind which the flat, surrounding country is 
invisible, and above which only an isolated 
triangular hill may here and there be descried 
—purple in the distance. The lake itself is 


Vol. **xrL— 3& 

tflfflfelTY OF MICHIGAN 


* 5 s 


about fifty miles long from cast to west; and 
eleven broad, but its area and perimeter are 
greatly extended by a series of long arms, 
or rather fingers, stretching out in every 
direction, but especially to the north, and 
affording access by water to very wide 
and various districts- All these arms, and 
even a great part of the centre of the lake, are 
filled with reeds, grass, and water-lilies, for 
Chioga is the first of the great sponges upon 
which the Nile lavishes its waters. Although 
a depth of about twelve feet can usually be 
counted on, navigation is impeded by floating 
weeds and water-plants ; and when the storms 
have swept the northern shore, numerous 
papyrus-tangled islands, complete with their 
populations of birds and animals, are detached, 
and swim erratically about the lake to block 
accustomed channels and puzzle the pilot. 

For one long day our little palpitating 
launch, towing its flotilla of canoes, plashed 
through this curious region, at times winding 
through a glade in the papyrus forest scarcely 
a dozen yards across, then presently emerging 
into wide flood, stopping often to clear 

bidden p^cincts is impossible ; to land 
for food or fuel would be dangerous, and 
even to approach might draw a splutter of 
musketry or a shower of spears from His 
Majesty's yet un persuaded subjects* 

The Nile leaves the north-west corner of 
the lake at Namasali and flows along a broad 
channel above a mile in widths still enclosed 
by solid papyrus walls and dotted with float- 
ing islands. Another forty miles of steaming 
and we reach Mruli* Mruli is a representa- 
tive African village. Its importance is more 
marked upon the maps than on the ground. 
An imposing name in large black letters calls 
up the idea of a populous and considerable 
township. All that meets the eye, however, 
are a score of funnel shaped grass huts, sur- 
rounded by dismal swamps and labyrinths 
of reeds, over which clouds of mosquitoes 
danced feverishly. A long wattled pier had 
been built from terra firma to navigable 
water, but the channel by which it could 
be approached had been wholly blocked by 
a floating island, and this had to be towed 
painfully out of the way before we could 

Frvtii «f J 

La mum; at HkUM. 

[ i*htAtjQrajih. 

our propeller from tangles of accumulating 
greenery. The middle of the lake unrolls 
large expanses of placid water. The banks and 
reeds recede into the distance, and the whole 
universe becomes a vast encircling blue globe 
of skv and water, rimmed round its middle by 
a thin baud of vivid green. Time vanishes, 
and nothing is left but space and sunlight. 

All this while we must carefully avoid the 
northern, and particularly the north-western 
shore, for the natives are altogether un- 
ad ministered, and nearly all the tribes are 
hostile. To pursue the elephants which, of 
course (so they say), abuund in these for- 

land. Here we were met by a fresh escort 
ol King's African Rifles, as spick nnd >p-m 
in uniform, as precise in their military bear- 
ing, as if they were at Aldershot, by a mob 
of fresh porters, and, lastly, by the only 
friendly tribe from the northern bank of the 
river ; and while tents were pitched, baggage 
landed, and cooking-fires began to glow, 
these four hundred wild spearmen, casting 
aside their leopard skins, danced naked in the 


Tike Worm aiad Has Wif©« 

By J. J, BELL, 

OOL ! Dolt ! Ass ! Ninny ! 
Noodle! Imbecile! Idiot! 1 ' 
The lawyer paused, either far 
want of breath or lack of 
epithets — possibly both. 
" I'm exceedingly sorry, 
said the little man who stood 


Mr. C lamp , 

near the consulting table, his eyes on 


" Sorry ? Humbug ! Stuff and nonsense ! 
Bosh ! Rubbish!" 

" I — I did not understand that you wished 
that patticuiar item included in the " 

4t You never do understand anything ! " 

The little man 
s h uf fled his r 
feet and sighed, 
Then he said, 
very mildly, " I 
am almost posi- 
tive, sir, you 
told me not to 
include it." 

"Are y o u 
quite positive?" 

"Well— er- 
rio ; not quite, 
sir, Yet " 

"Pah!" ex- 
claimed the 
lawyer, impati- 
ently. "What's 
the use of a man 
if he can't be 
quite positive ? 
Getaway! Don't 
be late to-mor- 
row morning. I 
have to catch the 
ten-fifty train." 

" I shall en- 
deavour to be 
here at " 

" Fiddlesticks! 
Be here at nine, 
and never mind 
your endeavours. 
Upon my soul, 
Humphry, you 
irritate me." 

"I exceedingly 
regret " 

MM sjirt 

" Oh, dash it, man ! Get away, get 
away ! " 

Willi bowed head Mr Humphry stole 
from the private room. Outside, however, 
he clenched his small fist and shook it at the 

41 If I could only get another job," he said 
to himself, He had said it every other day 
for nearly twenty years, during which he had 
been clerk to the old-established lawyer in the 
little town. j T 

Although he was in his forty fitst year 
Thomas Humphry had been married but six 
weeks, His wife was five years younger, 

several inches 
taller, and twenty 
per cent, heavier 
than himself, 
and was rather 
a handso m e 
woman. The few 
people who took 
any real interest 
in Thomas 
hinted at his 
having been 
li run into it " ; 
but, like must 
gossips, they were 
wrong. Thomas 
had courted and 
pro[x>sed in quite 
the orthodox 
fashion, though 
how he had ever 
emitted the all- 
important decla- 
ration was a thing 
be could not pre- 
cisely remember 
To young per- 
sons marriage, as 
a word, suggests 
a considerable 
amount of pleas- 
ing excitement ; 
to optimists of 
middle age it 
suggests peace 
and comfort, 
both mental an^ 
MlCHISAthysicaL M 




really unhappy marriages are begun in youth. 
At the spring called Romance are born two 
great rivers, Joy and Misery, and who shall 
say which is the greater ? We sneer at the 
marriage of convenience, but it isn't such a 
bad business when the convenience is mutual. 
It had been so with Mr. and Mrs. Humphry. 

Thomas, who had wanted a housekeeper, 
began to rely on and worship his wife within 
a week of the wedding. Kate, who had got 
sick of singleness upon a meagre income, 
grew motherly towards her husband within 
the same space of time, and each began to 
cleave to the other with all the other's faults 
and weaknesses. 

" How sharp you are, Kate!" said Thomas, 
not long after their return from the modest 
honeymoon trip. 

" You're far too meek and mild, Thomas," 
said Kale, a few minutes later. 

And they smiled at each other from their 
respective creaky basket-work chairs. 

Mr. Humphry entered the narrow hall of 
his home and hung his hat with violence on 
the peg he was beginning to regard as 
his own. 

" It's a good thing we didn't get those 
antelope horns you wanted for hat-pegs," 
his wife remarked, appearing in the parlour 
doorway, a good-humoured smile on her 
comely countenance. 

" So it is, Kate, so it is." He passed his 
hand over his brow, and did his best to return 
her smile. 

"Tired, Thomas?" 

11 A little — nothing to speak of. A wash '11 
put me right." 

" Old beast been at it again, Thomas ?" 

" Oh — well, nothing worse than usual." 

" 1 don't suppose he could be worse than 
usual. But we'll not talk about that just 
now. Tea will be ready in two minutes." 

" All right, Kate. I'll hurry up.." 

k was not until he had finished his first 
pipe and laid down the evening paper that 
she broached the subject which had been 
bothering her ever since Thomas had gone 
back to work after the honeymoon. 

"Thomas," she said, quietly, without 
pausing in her sewing, "why don't you put 
a stop to Mr. Clamp's impertinences?" 

It took the little man a moment or two to 
realize the significance of her words, and 
then the colour mounted to his face. 

"Why don't you, Thomas?" 

" It's only Clamp's way," he said at last. 
" I don't really mind it much," he added, 

" You do mind it, my dear ; and so do I," 
she returned, snipping a thread. " Nearly 
every night I can see that you mind it. The 
old beast ! " 

" Ah, well, it can't be helped. It's our 
bread and butter, Kate. I can't afford to 
quarrel with him. He pays me a fair 
salary — better than I'd get anywhere else." 
Thomas sighed. " And, after all, it's all in 
the day's work." 

" No, it isn't— or, at least, it shouldn't be. 
No man has any right to bully those who 
work for him. And as for the old beast 
paying you a fair salary, I'm very sure he 
wouldn't pay you a penny more than you 
were worth. Why, he ought to have made 
you a partner long ago ! " 

" My dear ! " said Mr. Humphry, depre- 

" I know what I'm talking about," his wife 
rejoined, briskly. " And I know the kind of 
man Mr. Clamp is, though I've never seen 
him, I'm most thankful to be able to say. 
My poor father served such a man, and it 
took years off his life. He did all the work 
and got nothing but abuse ; and he never 
realized until he was past work that his 
employer had -simply been snubbing him lest 
he should get to know his own value. That's 
the old beast's game ! I know ! " 

" My dear ! " again murmured Thomas. 

" I know," she went on, colouring a little 
with her growing excitement, "and therefore 
you must allow me to speak. The fact of 
the matter, Thomas, is that if you set up on 
your own account here Mr. Clamp would 
lose half his clients. They would simply 
flock to you." 

Thomas shook his head. " When shall I 
be able to set up on my own account ? " he 

"That's not the pgint, my dear. But 
you know what I said is true. Half his 
clients " 

"No, no, Kate. Don't worry yourself. 
Let well alone. I've stood it for eighteen 
years, and " 

" You're not going to stand it another 
month. Listen, Thomas! The next time 
he becomes offensive you'll just tell him that 
you won't stand it, and that, if he doesn't 
treat you with respect and give you a partner- 
ship, you'll leave him. There ! You'll do 
that — won't you ? " 

"Great goodness !" gasped Mr. Humphry. 
"He would think me mad — and so I 
would be. You don't know Clamp, Kate. 
You " Q r j g j^ a | f ro ^ 



stranger here, I've heard about him in my 
old home. He has no manners unless he 
is receiving payment of an account. He 
needs a lesson, and— and you're the man to 
give it." 

11 Me ! " Thomas spoke with more feeling 
than grammar. 

His wife's eyes twinkled hopefully, 

" Yes ; you, my dear ! " 

There was a silence- 

" Kate, you don't seem to be aware," said 

(4 It's no use talking about it, Kate, I — 
I can't." 

"But try |* 

Mr. Humphry gazed at his wife with a 
mixture of awe and admiration, 

"But it would be utter foolishness," he 

"Try it!" 

"Oh, Lord, I cwiV 

"Yes, you can," 

u And— what if I got the sack ?" 

1 KATK, YOU UDIy't Sl.t.M TO BH AWAKE,' tiAlD TII«>MA5, MAWLY, * THAT Yt>u'vji HAKfc!&tJ A — A OIWAHD. 

Thomas, slowly, "that you've married a— a 

" 1 am not aware, The man who once 
brought an old woman out of a burning 
house is not a ,5 

" \Sh I 'that's nothing to do with it. 
Kate T I'm a worm -a miserable worm ; and 
that's all about it ! " 

14 We are all worms, according to many 
good people/' said Mrs. Humphry, trying to 
thread her needle. " Tits! And the great 
— and only, so far as I can see — advantage 
of being worms is that we can turn. 
Thomas, mv dear, why on earth don't you 

turn? " Digitized by GoOglc 

Mrs. Humphry laughed. " IV1 like to see 
the old beast give you the sack, as you call 

it, 'Thomas 

No; you wouldn't like it, Kate, No! 
It's no use. I've been a wretched worm for 
nearly twenty years, and 111 never be any- 
thing else/' 

11 You'll be Mr. Clamp's partner. 'Clamp 
and Humphry.' I see the new brass plate 
already. Looks well. Good gracious, I've 
sewn up this sleeve ! Never mind ! I can 
unpick my mistake in time, Rut you can 
put yours right in two minutes. Speak out 
at his first sign of insolence, Thomas, 
Promise Qfiqjfddkf fUifil 




Thomas dropped his cold pipe and picked 
it up again. 

"Til try, Kate," he said, heavily; "111 

And he did try. But a month went past 
without his getting any further than trying. 

At the end of that month he came home 
one evening limper than ever. 

" Clamp went completely off his onion 
to-day," he said, shaking his head at the 
crumpets which had given his wife consider- 
able trouble that afternoon. " His language 
was horrid. I've got to go to Perryburn to- 
morrow — by the way, I shall be late in 
getting home, Kate— and if I don't pull off 
the business satisfactorily I'll get the sack. 
That's a fact ! " He lay back in his chair 
and groaned. 

" You're just a little depressed, Thomas, " 
said his wife, smiling and endeavouring to 
eat one of her own crumpets without making 
choking sounds. " It'll come all right, 

Thomas groaned again. " You've married 
a worm, Kate," he sighed. " You've married 
a worm." 

With an effort she laughed, saying, " We'll 
wriggle through somehow, my dear. But 
you're not to call yourself a worm again." 


Mr. Clamp was engaged in the pleasing 
task of inditing a threatening epistle to an 
unfortunate individual who owed one of his 
clients the sum of three pounds twelve 
shillings and elevenpence, when the office- 
boy appeared with the announcement that 
a lady wished to see him. Mr. Clamp 
abhorred all women who were not clients; 
and then he merely suffered them, and, 
when possible, deputed Humphry to see 
them. But to-day the clerk was absent. 

" Who is she ? What's her business ? " he 
snapped at the boy, who was new to the work. 
Mr. Clamp's boys always were new. 

" Her name " — the boy smiled — " is Mrs. 
Worm, sir, and " 

" What are you grinning at, idiot ? " 

" Beg pardon, sir. It was the name, sir." 

" Ninny ! What's her business ? " 

"She said it was private, sir," said the 
bov, now serious enough. 

" Is she a lady ? " 

" I think so, sir." 

"Imbecile! Can't you be positive? Is 
she a collector ? " 

" I couldn't say, sir." 

u Oh, get away, you useless noodle! Tell 
her I can't No, stay ! Show her in. 

And you leave this office at the end of the 

Grunting wrathfully, Mr. Clamp laid aside 
the unfinished letter, hoping his visitor might 
chance to be a debtor seeking mercy. He 
was in a rare mood for bullying. 

The boy ushered in the lady, placed a 
chair for her, and retired. 

" Good morning," said the lady. 

"Good morning, madam," returned the 
lawyer, barely rising and bowing slightly. 
She did not look like a distracted debtor, 
nor did she carry the collector's usual supply 
of pamphlets. On the other hand, he did 
not recognise in her a possible wealthy client. 
Probably some trifling advice was all that 
would be required. 

" I understand, madam," he began, " that 
your name is " 

"Oh, never mind that just now," she 
said, quietly. "I was about to ask you 
why you do not stand up when a lady enters 
your room." 

For several seconds the lawyer simply 
gaped. Then his flabby, shaven face went 

" I beg your pardon ! " he stuttered. " But 
what " 

" Granted," said the lady, calmly. " But 
you must try to remember in future." 

The crimson gave place to the pallor of 

" What is your business ? " he rasped, in 
the tone that had made many men tremble. 
" What d'you want ? Who are you ? " 

" Pray do not excite yourself, sir." 

His look then ought to have made her 
quail, but she kept her steady grey eyes fixed 
upon him, while a faint disconcerting smile 
hovered about her lips. 

" What are you driving at ? " he roughly 
demanded. " You appear to have got in 
here on false pretences, and if you cannot 
justify your " 

" Oh, fiddlesticks ! I came in to see what 
you were really like, Mr. Clamp. I had 
heard you were very terrible, but you're 
merely rude and noisy." 

" You — you must be mad ! " He put out 
his hand to ring the bell on his desk. 

" Don't be a goose ! " 

He gave the bell a savage blow. 

" What a naughty temper ! " 

The lawyer writhed in silence. He knew 
not what to say. The office-boy appeared. 

" Show this- this lady out." 

" Yes, sir." The boy looked expectantly 
at the lady, who rewarded him with a smile, 

but ™%fr^tWMICHIGAN 



" Show this lady out," 

The boy looked at the lady with growing 

" You gaping idiot/' roared Clamp, (t don't 
you hear what I say ? Show the lady out." 

"She — she doesn't want to go, sir/' 

"Show the lady out, or Til " 

But here exasperation overcame the boy's 
fear of his master, 

14 Do it yourself, you old fat-head!" he 
yelled, and bolted. 

The lady had grown a trifle pale, but still 
kept her eyes on the lawyer* He rose, sat 
down, and rose again. He looked as If he 
were going to explode. 

" Wouldn't you like to open the window 
and call for the police ? J1 she asked. 
4t If you weren't a woman—" 
(1 If I were a man you would probably use 
very fierce and very silly language. But 
you wouldn't do anything else. No ; you 
wouldn't ! I am not the least afraid of you, 
Mr. Clamp. But I believe you are afraid of 
me. You think I am mad because I can 
face you with all your foolish, noisy bluster. 
You must really try to curb that temper of 
yours and learn better manners, What a 
bad example you have been showing that 
poor boy who has just gone ! No wonder he 
turned at last. Age and a good business are 





no excuse for your behaviour. There now ! " 
Her hands shook a little, but she clasped 
them on her lap. 

Clamp threw himself into his chair. 

"What the mischief do you want?" he 
said, sulkily. 

" Now, Mr. Clamp, you are forgetting 
yourself already. But I must not be too 
severe with you all at once. I will answer 
your question. I want a partnership and 
proper treatment for my husband." 

" What ? Your husband ? Who is 

" Mr. Thomas Humphry." 

There was a dead silence for two seconds. 
Then a roar burst from the lawyer. 

" So — so that's the meaning of your impu- 
dent trick. If you weren't a woman " 

" Humbug ! Stuff and nonsense ! Rubbish ! 
Bosh!" said Mrs. Humphry, adding, "That's 
a quotation." 

Clamp grabbed the arms of his chair. 
His voice was hoarse as he said : — 

11 Mr. Thomas Humphry leaves my service 
a month from this date, madam. And 
you may thank yourself — and he can 
thank you— for that ! A month from this 

" Quite so. He will leave your service a 
month from this date— unless you make it 
worth his while to remain. I may say that 
he knows nothing of my visit here to-day, and 
1 should not advise you to tell him. He is a 
very mild man, but he can be roused, and 
then he is terrible. He does not talk — he 
acts — acts on my advice. He will certainly 
leave you if he knows of our interview. And 
I should be sorry to see an old man — well, 
you are not really so old — left alone with a 
decaying business. You can't manage it 
yourself, you know, and if Mr. Humphry 
opens an office of his own, the best 
customers — I mean clients — will flock to 
him. It is only because you are getting old 
that Mr. Humphry has put up with your 
treatment. But his patience won't last for 


"Of all the impudence " began Mr. 

Clamp, and paused helplessly. 

"Neither Mr. Humphry nor myself is 
quite penniless, Mr. Clamp," she remarked, 
in a casual tone. " You must not delude 
yourself with the idea that you can beat us. 
If you were married you would understand 
the position better. I only ask you to do 
what is fair. Abstain from bullying, and 
show some practical appreciation of the 
twenty years' service of Mr. Humphry." 

Mr. Clamp's face now wore such an ex- 
hausted look that she felt almost sorry for 
him. And suddenly she felt exhausted 

" Well," she said, rising, " I've said all I 
came to say— and perhaps a little more, Mr. 
Clamp. I shall keep this interview entirely 
to myself, unless you desire otherwise. A 
note posted by five o'clock will reach Mr. 
Humphry by the last post to-night. I expect 
him home about nine. May I hope ? " 

But the lawyer seemed bereft of speech. 
His lips moved, possibly with thoughts he 
dared not utter. 

" And I think you should forgive that boy 
of yours. I feel responsible in a way. I am 
sure he will apologize if you give him a 
chance. Try to give everyone a chance, Mr. 
Clamp, and you won't be sorry." 

She had been moving to the door as she 
spoke, and with the last word disappeared. 

Clamp rose slowly to his feet. 

" Well, I'm hanged ! " he said, half aloud. 
" What impudence — and what infernal 
pluck ! " 


Mr. Thomas Humphry returned from his 
mission that night, wearied and dejected. 

" I failed to pull it off," he said. u Clamp 
will be mad to-morrow. Halloa ! what's he 
writing about?" He opened the letter on 
his plate, read it, and fell back in his chair. 

" Kate! " he said, huskily, handing it to her. 

And Mrs. Humphry, who had a splitting 
headache, gave a wild laugh and burst into 

by Google 

Original from 

A Day in the Life of a London Reporter. 

A Description of an Actual Experience by C. D. LESLIE. 

REPORTER on a big 
London daily leads, at any 
rate upon the commence- 
ment of his career, a life of 
strenuous futility. He works 
hard all day, but the "copy" 
he produces, after it has been passed by his 
chief, the news editor, has to undergo the 
revision of those natural enemies of the 
reporter, the sub editors ; it appears trimmed, 
truncated, or mutilated out of recognition, 
perhaps half a column of descriptive matter 
reduced to a three-line paragraph. Not in- 
frequently it never appears at all. 

It has always been a marvel to me that no 
reporter has ever yet been hanged for killing 
a sub-editor ; this either points to the fact 
that reporters are more forgiving and long- 
suffering than ordinary mortals, or sub-editors 
tougher and more difficult to kill. 

Yet the task of the gentlemen who, in the 
reporters' room, go by the generic name of 
" butchers " is no easy one. Space is limited, 
and the telegrams of foreign correspondents 
have the first claims on it, except when some 
specially exciting event is happening at home. 
There is a correspondent in every provincial 
town, generally on the staff of a local paper, 
and he loses no chance of forwarding any 
news important enough in his opinion to 
justify publication in London. The news 
editor, via his staff, supplies them each 
night with about four times as much copy 
as they can find space for. In this em- 
barrassment of riches the sub-editors wallow 
— cutting here and suppressing there, trying 
to squeeze a quart of news into a pint of 
space. It is a task unfinished even after the 
paper goes to press, for the earlier or 
provincial editions vary more or less com- 
pared with the London edition ; the latter 
goes to press three or four hours later, and 
what news arrives during that period is 
squeezed in by the simple expedient of 
sacrificing other matter. 

With this exordium follows the actual 
record of a day's work I recently did when 
employed by a London daily. 

If a reporter works long hours he is at 
least spared the added discomfort of rising 
early and bolting his breakfast in a hurry ; 
when on late duty he is not expected to 
appear before noon, and, as a matter of fact, 

Vol. xxx vi. — 34. 

he doesn't. On this particular day, which 
happened to be a Sunday, it was twelve 
before I arrived at the office, and I had half 
an hour to read the Referee and chat with 
fellow-reporters before my assignment came 
by the hands of the assistant news editor. 

" Go and see the Duchess of Mainland," ran 
my instructions — "she's spending the week- 
end at Northwood, fifteen miles from London 
— and ask her if she can give us any further 
news about the Dowson - Moore Antarctic 
Expedition. She's helped to finance it, and 
will know if anybody does." A cutting from 
a Sunday paper giving all the known details 
of the expedition was handed me, and I 
gathered that the explorers in question, after 
having been given up for dead, had tele- 
graphed from some outlandish port that 
they were very much alive. 

A reporter has no fixed hours for meals — 
he eats when he can — and I took the pre- 
caution of making a good lunch before I 
caught my train at Baker Street. When I 
reached my destination I learned to my 
disgust the house I was bound for was five 
miles away. Had I kept in the train and 
gone on to the next station the distance would 
have been halved. I waited three-quarters of 
an hour at the station. This is one of the 
innumerable occasions when a reporter wastes 
time ; not being omniscient, he cannot always 
know the quickest way to his destination. 

At last I was on the road and drew near 
to my goal. Everyone knew the Duchess, 
evidently the local notability, and presently I 
reached the house and saw, to my exceeding 
joy, the house-party having tea on the lawn. 
I counted the interview as good as gained, 
but, alas ! my satisfaction was premature, for 
the butler, affably bland, came back with the 
message that the Duchess would like to 
know the object of my visit. 

" It's about the Dowson-Moore Antarctic 
Expedition. Her Grace " 

The butler interrupted me. He smiled 
more blandly than ever. 

" I fancy, sir, you've come to the wrong 

"The wrong Duchess?" I echoed, ruefully. 

" The present Duchess, sir, lives in Berk- 
shire, but I fancy she's in Ireland at present. 
This Duchess is the widow of the late 

University of Michigan 




" And she knows nothing about the 
expedition ? w 

11 Nothing, sir ; 1 heard her say so at 
lunch to-day. It's the other Duchess who is 
interested ill it." 

There is no help for it, I must return, 
my mission unfulfilled. It is a hat, tiring 
walk. I just catch a train, but it is past six 
before I am back in London and drinking a 
much -needed cup of tea, There follows a 
desperate endeavour by means of the tele- 
phone to find somebody likely to add to our 
meagre information concerning the expe- 
dition* But it is the holiday season, everybody 
is out of town. As a last resort I set out for 
St. John's Wood, in hopes of running to earth 
an important official of the Royal Geograph 
ical Society. It ought, by the way, to be 
compulsory for all celebrities living in 
London to be on the telephone— reporters' 
work would be much lessened if this were 
the case. When I find the house it is bril- 
liantly lighted up, but the man who opens to 
me is not a butler, but a caretaker in his 
shirt-sleeves. The celebrity is out of town. 

By ten I am back and report my failure, 
The paper will have to do without any 
special interview regarding the Antarctic 
Expedition ; and I sit down, light a cigarette, 
and rest. 

A man arrives, a labourer, and reports a 
boy drowned in the Thames* The reporter 
in charge sends a junior to verify the story in 
case it is worth a paragraph. The news editor 
returns from dinner, looks in, and goes to 
commune with the night editor. All is peace 

Suddenly the news editor enters in a 
hurry, " The Rev. Mr. Smith, of St. John's, 
Greenwich," he says, "has dropped down dead 
after preaching the sermon. We've got the 
report, but we want the text he discoursed 
from and a few lines from his sermon to 
round up the story. Go and get it and tele- 
phone it to the office/' 

It is, of course, a piece of ill luck that I 
happen to be the only reporter present avail- 
able, but that is all in the day's work, and I 
set out for Cannon Street. Now be it noted 
it is Sunday night, and when I get to Green- 
Wich the last train for town is starting, and 
with the cheery prospect of having to spend 
the nighl in this unknown suburb I start for 
the church, and, thanks to contradictory 
directions given me, it is half- past eleven 
before I find it. 

The church stands in a quiet, badly-lighted 
street, and I cannot see the names of the 
churchwardens on the notice board. More- 
over, nearly e, very bed v in the neighbourhood 

has °\Wtei#5^i^Arf feel inclined 



to despair. For twelve hours, with very brief 
intervals for refreshments, I have been rush- 
ing about, and the result has been absolutely 
nil. In desperation I seek a house where the 
light over the door suggests someone is still 

41 Were you at St. John's to-night ? H I asked 
the man who answered my knock. 

He was not, he tells me, but he has heard 
of the vicar's sudden death, and when I state 
ray errand is sympathetic. He has a vague 
idea the vicar's house is a little up the street, 
and this a lady who joins him confirms* 

It is, of coarse, impossible to intrude on 
the bereaved household, and I ask desperately 
for the address of somebody who was likely 
to have been at the church, but presently a 
second lady joins the conference on the door- 
step and declares positively that a curate 
lives at the house in question, and not the 

Everybody here has gone to bed, but I 
ring and ring, and presently a gentleman 
risen from bed opens to me, and my luck 
has turned — he is the curate of St. John's, 
and instead of killing me he gives me the 
text and sends me on my way rejoicing. 

My instructions are to telephone, and it is 
highly necessary that the news goes to the 
printers at once, for it is now midnight and 
the country edition has already gone to 

press, but all-night public telephones are 
hard to find, 1 try the police-station, but 
the inspector in charge will not help me. 
As a rule the police are helpful, but I 
have struck upon a particularly unamiable 
inspector, and I wander forth in despair. 

Somebody tells me that somewhere - 
I believe at Deptford — there is a telephone 
open all night, and I board a tram which 
takes me in that direction. I confide my 
troubles to the conductor, who informs me 
that near by is a tramway station which 
possesses a telephone, and that perhaps I 
may be allowed to use it I attempt to, 
The manager is courtesy itself and very sorry 
to disoblige me, but he is a servant of the 
County Council, and he fears they would 
disapprove. Were it only a private company, 
as in the old daye, the telephone would be at 
my service. 

But though it is now half-past twelve, and 
every railway station closed long ago, the 
trams have not ceased, and I learn to my joy 
that I can get to Charing Cross, and for the 
first time in my life blessing the County 
Council I enter one of their luxurious and 
brilliantly -lighted cars. There are still 
crowds about and nobody even looks sleepy ; 
I have a vague idea I am, but am not sure 

The knowledge that I shall get home some 
time that night, instead of sleeping in my 


that 1 am si^p^ e©rwin^ frwTi 





clothes in a strange bed, cheers me wonder- 
fully. The tram, running along the empty 
streets with the speed of a motor-car, crosses 
Westminster Bridge by one o'clock, and from 
the Embankment at Charing Cross I s[>eedily 
reach my goal. 

Under the piles of the bridge there lies 


some staging, and this is utilized by the 
homeless wanderers who frequent the Em- 
bankment. They sit side by side spiritless, 
abject, awaiting the coming of the next day. 
I count some forty men, most of them ill 
the prime of life, thus mutely expressing 
their utter penury almost within the shadow 
of the Cecil and Savoy, Truly the contrasts 

by Google 

of modern life in a great city are ironic. 
Even the hive of industry I left earlier in 
the evening is almost deserted. In the base- 
ment the presses sing their nightly song, but 
most of the offices are dark and silent, and 
the big room where most of the day staff t 
as apart from the reporters, work is sparsely 
inhabited. But the night editor 
is at his desk in his shirt- 
sleeves, grave, imperturbable, 
reposeful, for the rush of work 
is over, and to him I explain 
my errand. 

Silently he hears me, silently 
picks up a copy of the paper 
already printed, opens it, glances 
at the brief report of the vicar's 
death, and cuts it out. *' Add 
the text to that/' he says, 

I do so* The time is now 
1*15 a*m., and for three hours I 
have been hunting the text. For 
the first time I read it. The vicar 
had been ailing for some time, 
and the text of his last sermon 
was taken from the forty -second 
Psalm : " My soul thirsteth for 
God, for the living God, When 
shall I come and appear before 

The coincidence strikes the 
editor when I lay the story — 
** rounded ofT/ J as my chief desired 
before him, 

"He got there sooner than 
he expected,' 1 he says, not irre- 
verently, but as one stating a fact, 
and sends the copy to the printer. 
At one thirty my day's work is 
over, but I am seven miles from 
my bed and 4t Shanks's mare" is 
the only means of progression 
available. But at three I am in 
it, and nothing but an earthquake 
—and even that might have failed 
— would have got me out. 

There are short cuts to eminence 
in Fleet Street. Money or brains 
of superior quality will start you high up the 
tree, but for the average man who wishes 
to become a magnate in the daily news- 
paper world the way lies only through a 
reporLcrship in the first place. The test 
is severe and many fall by the way, and 
no one without the journalistic instinct 
should attempt it 

Original from 

THe Copper 


F the relics of Cunning Murrell, 
the wise man of Essex, I have 
seen many, and I own some. 
His books of conjuration and 
geomancy, scores of his written 
horoscopes ; and of his actual 
implements of magic I have seen the famous 
glass by which he or anybody else was 
enabled to see through a brick wall. This 
amazing instrument gained him vast con- 
sideration and authority among the unlearned 
of Essex up to and beyond the middle of the 
nineteenth century; but matter-of-fact ex- 
amination, at a time when Cunning Murrell 
was altogether too dead to prevent it, robbed 
the wonder of all its mystery. For indeed, 
it was nothing but a simple arrangement of 
mirrors in a wooden case, such as a school- 
boy might make for himself with a little 
patience and the ruins of a shaving-glass. 
{ But it served its turn well, and it was by this 
and other such aids that Murrell became, and 
remained to his life's end, something like 
absolute sovereign of#all Essex outside the 
great houses. 

But there was another instrument, or talk 
of it at least, of far stranger purport. There 
was talk of it still, twenty years and more 
after its reputed possessor was gathered to his 
fathers and his twenty - one children in 
Hadleigh Churchyard. This was said to be 
nothing less than a strange disc of dull 
copper, by aid whereof Cunning Murrell 
could distinguish the true man from the liar. 
For the liar might stare at it till his eyes were 
sore, yet never could he see in it anything 
but its mere material self — a round plate of 
common dull copper ; while it was the 
peculiar virtue of an honest man's eyes to 
perceive on the dim surface something — 
something of which only Cunning Murrell 
had the secret ; something which the gazer 
must declare to him as proof and test of his 
truth. But of what that something was 
nobody could tell a word ; for indeed it 
would seem that nobody had ever seen it. 
And yet belief in its existence was wide as 
Essex ; though there has been a suspicion 
that the whole report was the invention of 
that squinting humorist, Dan Fisk. For he 
had a deal to do with the only tale of the 
charm I know. 

Copyright, iyo8, 

In those days Hadleigh Fair occurred 
once a year, on Midsummer Day. Rochford 
Market was held once a week, on Thursday. 
On Rochford Market night the neighbour- 
ing roads carried many convivial home-goers 
by horse, dog-cart, wagon, and foot ; on 
Hadleigh Fair night there was far greater 
conviviality and many more convivials. But 
when Hadleigh Fair fell on the same day as 
Rochford Market (as needs it must in some 
years) then the resulting jollity was as the 
square of Hadleigh hilarity plus the cube of 
Rochford revelry, involved to the nth power, 
and a great deal more involved than that, 
too, if you can believe it. 

It was on one of these days of joyous 
coincidence that Abel Pennyfather gave Joe 
Barstow and Elijah Weeley a lift to Rochford 
Market in his cart, and so gave occasion for 
this appeal to MurrelFs talisman. 

Hadleigh Fair grew active at seven in the 
morning ; so that there had been seven hours 
of it ere Abel Pennyfather's cart set out at 
two in the afternoon. Seven hours of Had- 
leigh Fair and its overwhelming gooseberry- 
pie ! Yor it was the gooseberry-pie, crown 
and symbol of Hadleigh Fair, that made the 
anniversary formidable. It was the property 
of this potent confection to cause many with 
whom it disagreed to fall asleep in ditches, 
and others to penetrate into the wrong houses 
on all-fours. An extraordinary unsteadiness 
of the legs, widely prevalent on fair day, had 
been distinctly traced to goose berry- pie by 
many expert victims, and a certain waviness 
of outline in Hadleigh scenery could be 
attributed to nothing else. 

So that after several hours of Hadleigh 
Fair, and a long monotony of gooseberry-pie, 
it struck Joe Barstow and Elijah Weeley that 
a visit to Rochford Market would make a 
welcome change. Abel Pennyfather's cart 
offered the opportunity, and that opportunity, 
embodied and made visible in the tailboard, 
Joe Barstow seized with both hands ; after 
which, with no difficulty beyond the tem- 
porary delay caused by Elijah Weeley's 
mistaken attempt to haul himself aboard by 
Joe's leg, the journey began. 

Of the events of that journey, the " faites 
and gestes " of Joe and Elijah at Rochford 
Market, who shall tell? Pass rather to the 

by AnblM IMiRSJnTY ( - H IGA N 




return of Abel Penny father, light- laden and 
heedless, driving his white mare, as of old 
drove the son of Jehoshaphat, the son of 
Kimshi, pounding the road to Hadleigh in 
the cool of the evening, and destined to 
make near such a stir at the Castle Inn as 
did his forerunner at JezreeL For at that 
same Castle Inn he descended from his 
perch, dropped the tailboard, and proceeded 
in due order to tug at the two sleeping 
figures within- With the natural protest of 
grunts and gasps the sleepers presently 
emerged, and were presented erect to society 
— in the persons of Reuben Turner and 
young Sim Cloyse. 

"What's this?" cried Abel Pennyfather, 
staring aghast. "Tis witchcraft, an' nothirT 
else! They was Joe Harstow an' J Lijah 
Weeley when they got in ; an* that Til swear 
'pon oath ! M 

Friends gathered to inspect the phenome- 
non, and agreed that Reuben Turner and 
Sim Cloyse were certainly Reuben and Sim 
now, whoever they may have been earlier in 
the day And, although Abel protested with 
increasing vehemence that they were indis- 
putably Joe and Elijah when he put them in 
the cart at Rochford, Reuben and Sim 

declared, with equal confidence, that they had 
never been anybody but themselves all day. 
Wherein the neighbours were disposed to 
agree with them, arguing that a man who 
had been someone else would probably 
be the first to know it and the last to 
be mistaken about it. But the greater the 
majority against him the more positive Abel 
Pennyfather grew ; and the discussion waxed 
prodigiously for a time till there arrived Job- 
son of Wickford, very angry, and many miles 
out of his way home, driving his own horse 
in the shafts of Abel Penny father's cart, with 
Joe Barstow and Elijah Weeley in it ; neither 
ot them, strictly speaking, awake, after the 
fatigues of the day. 

" Couldn't you see they'd putt the J osses to 
the wrong carts?" shouted Jobson to the 
amazed Fennyfather, " I've a- been chasing 
yow arl the way from Rochford ! " 

"Glory be!" gasped Abel, u an' so they 
hev. Now that comes o p itandin' they two 
carts side by side on sich a troublesome con- 
fusin 1 day. I putt them chaps in behind in 
my cart and I walked round they two carts 
twice, careful and absent-minded as I be, 
afore I stopped agin my oad white mare. 

.aya I, an 1 I took the 

*Come up, nad gal/ says I, an' I 




reins off her an' got up an* druv home with- 
out another thought." 

" No," retorted Jobson of Wickford, still 
very angry. " I count a thought ain't a treat 
you often hew Can't you help with the 
harness now I hev found 'ee ? " 

But the most of the Intelligence present 
was in a state of suspension, not to say 
paralysis, in face of the novelty of the adven- 
ture ; soaring, at any rate, in regions far from 
any matter of Jobson's harness. The one 
or two most distinguished for presence of 
mind were turning their faculties toward the 
rousing and hauling forth of Joe Barstow 
and Elijah Wee ley, when another object was 
perceived in the cart. 

"Why," said one, "here be a gallon jar. 
Is it yourn, Master Jobson ? " 

** No/* snapped Jobson, wrenching at a 
buckle, " daren't. More mistakes, I count — 
Pve a-been cart in' a wuthiess load as don't 
belong to me-" 

M Is b t yours, Abel ? " pursued the inquirer. 

" No s that it benV replied Abel Penny- 
father, not yet capable of sagacious reflection. 
It was an answer which he 
never ceased to regret for the 
rest of his life; for as Joe 
and Elijah rose, cramped and 
blinking, Dan Fisk, having 
removed the cork and tempo- 
rarily substituted his nose, 
cried aloud, "Why, 'tis rum, 
sure/y/' 1 

At the words Joe Barstow 
and Elijah Wee ley were sud- 
denly wide awake, ready, 
prudent, and unanimous. A 
hand of each fell simul- 
taneously on the jar as Dan 
restored the cork, and the 
vessel was drawn to a loving 
embrace between them. It 
was a touching action, and 
signified to the dullest intelli- 
gence that the gallon jar was 
homeless no longer 

"Thankee, Joe," said 
Elijah, "I'll take that jar 

" Never mind/ 1 replied Joe ; 
u l count I can carry it my- 

"I wouldn't dream of it," 
protested Elijah, politely. 
**My house is only jist round 
the corner/' 

" I ain't goin* there," re- 
torted Joe, not so politely. lC" TI 

" No need, me bein' gofn* to take it myself.'' 

"Take what yourself?" 

"My rum." 

** Your rum ? Oh, well, you can take it 
where you like, any as you've got This 
here's mine." 

"Yours? Why, Joe Barstow, you bent 
awake yet ; you're dreaming." 

11 I count I'm awake enough to know my 
own property. You let go/' 

" 'Taren't likely I'd make a mistake about 
my own freehold jar o 7 rum, is it, neighbours?" 
protested Elijah, maintaining his grip, "Joe, 
you're dreaming, I tell 'ee," 

"If I'm a-dreamin J 1+ retorted Joe, doggedly, 
" then I'm a-dreamin* this 'ere's my jar, an* 
the dream's comin T true, An' if a man 

haven't a right to the furnitude of his own 
dreams, who hev, eh ? That's law and logic 
too, I count" 

"If you come to speak of the law," inter- 
posed Abel Penny father, hoping to repair his 
early error, u the jar bein' found in my cart, 
an 1 me that absent-minded, I'm none so 
sure w 


* m 








Original from 



" No, you ain't," interrupted Joe, 
promptly; "but I am. Elijah an' me both 
know better than that. His mistake's sayin' 
it's his, an* not knowin' where he bought 

" Bought it ? " repeated Elijah, plainly a 
little startled. " Who says I dunno where I 
bought it ? I bought it— I bought it " — he 
glanced wildly about him for a moment — 
" bought it at the Red Cow." 

11 You may have bought a gallon o' rum at 
the Red Cow. I ain't deny in' it — you look 
as though you had, I count ; but you den't 
bring it home in this here jar. I got this — 
got this here — got it from a friend — off the 
price of a pig he owed me for." 

And now Dan Fisk interposed, as sports- 
man and humorist, watchful to allow no fun 
to evaporate unprofitably, and eager to tend, 
stimulate, and inflame it and to improve its 
flavour. So, with his beaming red face and 
his coruscating squint, he faced each dis- 
putant in turn, representing the scandal of a 
public row, and the advantages of a private 
investigation by friends of both parties in the 
Castle Inn parlour. 

Whereupon Joe and Elijah, with the jar 
of rum between them and dividing them, 
physically and morally, Abel Pennyfather and 
Jol»son of Wickford, Dan Fisk, and several 
more, turned into the Castle parlour, where 
Dan Fisk opened proceedings by snatching 
the jar and standing it in the middle of the 

"There be the article in dispute," he pro- 
claimed, "and here be we all a-gathered 
round it to see fair. Joe Barstow an* 'Lijah 
Weeley be the disputatious claimants, an' 
to one o' they two 'tis alleged that jar 

"Hem !" coughed Pennyfather, tentatively. 
" Twould seem so, at fust sight, as you 
might say; though bein' found in my cart, 
an' me " 

"Joe Barstow and 'Lijah Weeley be the 
candidates," proceeded Dan, ignoring Abel, 
" both on 'em havin' bought this here jar o' 
rum, as they distinctly tell us 'emselves, or as 
distinctly as sarcumstances allow. 'Lijah 
Weeley, he bought it off a red cow, and Joe 
Barstow, he took it off a friendly pig." 

" Took it off a friend," grunted Joe, 
doggedly suspicious. 

" The pig were a friend o' Joe's," pursued 
Dan, " an' as to the red cow, no doubt " 

" 1 said at the Red Cow," interrupted 
Elijah, sulkily—" Red Cow Inn." 

"Oho\" exclaimed Dan, turning on him 
suddenly, « that ^ eh ? Red Cow Inn ? 

An' where be the Red Cow Inn at Roch- 
ford, eh?" 

"Eh? Rochford?" 

" Ah, I don't call to mind any Red Cow at 
Rochford. What Red Cow ? " 

Elijah Weeley stared blankly. " Maybe 
I'm thinkin' o' somewhere else," he said, 
rubbing his ear with his palm. "There's a 
Red Cow at Burnham, sure/y." 

" Ah, but you haven't been near Burnham 
to-day, you know. I'm beginning to doubt 
your remembrance o' that rum." 

"Taren't his, I tell 'ee," growled Joe 
Barstow. " I took it off a friend for a pig." 

" Tell us the friend's name ! " cried Dan, 
pouncing on Joe with a raised forefinger. 
" Out with his name— quick ! " 

Joe stared as blankly as Elijah. " Him ? " 
he said, slowly. " Oh — that there chap — you 
know; the one as — well, maybe not him, 
exactly, so to say, but a relation of his. 
That's the chap." 

" O' course that's the chap — I've been 
a-thinkin' o' that chap, myself" — Dan pur- 
sued, with a wider grin. " But what's his 
name ? These here genelmen o' the jury are 
that unfriendly suspicious, they won't swallow 
the pig story without the chap's name. What 
is it?" 

Joe Barstow stared and sweated in an 
agony of mental travail. " Bill ! " he burst 
out at length. 

" His name's Bill," repeated Dan, solemnly, 
turning to the company with an airy gesture 
and a bow of the gravest importance. "Joe's 
friend be the celebrated person o' the name 
o' Bill. A party with sich a name as that 
wouldn't bother to hev another, I suppose, 
Toe, would he ? " 

"I dunno," said Joe, sulkily. "That 
jar's mine, howsomever ; I do remember 

" 'Tis a comfort to know it, for a good 
memory's a great blessin*. Havin' that par- 
tikler blessin' by you, no doubt you remem- 
ber the pig's birthday ? Because 'tis the 
recollection o' this here honourable jury that 
your last litter o' pigs were all sold to Sam 
Prentice here in Hadleigh." 

"That jar o' rum's mine, I tell ee," 
repeated Joe, fiercely dogged. 

" An' you aren't no more sartin about the 
pig than 'Lijah Weeley about the cow ? " 

" I'm sartin 'tis my rum," growled Joe. 
And Elijah Weeley, gathering courage, broke 
in again. 

" Touchin' the Red Cow," he said, " that 
be a pardonable mistake anybody might 

make -i/**rTf^%cteff nap - But 




daren't no mistake when I say, in round 
numbers, that rum's mine," 

"S'posin' that's so," queried Dan, "how 
would you treat all your friends here in regard 
to that rum ? " 

Elijah Wee ley glanced at the crowd about 
him with some uneasiness. "Oh ! " he said, 
airily, " I'd give a friend a glass, o' course." 

41 Td give all my friends two glasses," ex- 
claimed Joe, bidding like a politician, but 
with the wildest miscalculation of the jars 

l( Well, well," said Elijah- 6i When 1 said 
a glass I was a-puttin' of it figurative, as you 
might say, I'd do the handsome thing, 

"Then this here trouble's settled," pro- 
claimed Dan Fisk. "Takin'it as the jar 
belongs to either one o' you, and you're both 
ekally horspitable — well, here's all your mutual 
friends, an' we've on'y got to order in the 
glasses artd the water, an* the dispute passes 
away harmonious along o' the rum." 

The rivals received this amiable proposal 
with uneasy indignation, and joined forces 
against it instantly, 

"Certainly not ! " said Elijah. 

"Not me!" said Jw^( 

Vol. xxsvi. 35 

" Why not ? n demanded Dan. 

I£ 'Twouldn't be proper," said Elijah. 

"Course not," agreed Joe. 

"If I stood drinks round out o' my jar/' 
explained Elijah, u Joe Barstow 'ud go an' say 
it was his treat. 1 ' 

11 An' if I treated my friends out o* my 
jar,' 1 pursued Joe, " 'Lijah Weeley 'ud go arl 
over Essex a bragging as he'd stood drinks 
round— a thing he never did in his life." 

With that the proceedings fell into riotous 
confusion and a conflict of a hundred sug- 
gestions, from which in a little while Dan 
Eisk once more emerged triumphant. 

* k There's not h in' for it, neighbours," he 
announced, " but Cunning MurrelL Cunning 
Murrell an' his copper charm'll settle this. 
Nobody here can tell whether Joe or 'Lijah 
is tell in 1 truth, least of all Joe and 'Lijah 
'em selves, after such a busy fair day. Well 
take 'em now to look at Master MurrelTs 
copper charm, an* see which be the truth 

The suggestion was received with general 
favour, except, oddly enough, by the claim- 
ants themselves, who began, with uneasy 
alarm and much labour, to invent the 
bt^innines.^of .oMecWttis ^tid excuses, But 




they and their objections were swept away 
together by the enthusiasm of the majority, 
who— feeling by now some proprietary 
interest in the ruin -were quite willing to 
add the further interest of a performance of 
MurrelTs necromancy, at no expense to 
themselves. Wherefore, the whole company, 
with Dan Fisk and the jar at their head, 
emerged into the street, now dark, and turned 
into the lane where stood Cunning Murrdl's 

The way was short — eighty yards, perhaps 
— though long enough to produce a change 
in the demeanour of the company, which, 
starting hilarious, tailed out and quieted, and 
at last halted before Murrell's door in re- 
spectful silence. For that was the manner 
of all toward the witch-finder, and indeed a 
targe part of the grin had vanished even from 
Dan Fisk's face as he clicked the latch. 

Murrell himself opened the door, and 
stood f small and grey and severe, on the 
threshold, demanding the meaning of the 

visit. The little room behind him, lighted 
by a solitary candle and hung thick with 
bunches of dried herbs, was a fitting back- 
ground — the most mysterious chamber in the 
little world of South Essex. 

Dan Fisk posed the jar on his knee and 
explained the dispute, though now with 
something short of his native facetiousness. 

Cunning Murrell heard him through, and 
then said, sharply : "So now you come to ask 
o ? my curis arts which o' they men be sayin' 
truth ? With a copper charm you hear of? " 

" Aye, Master Murrell. sir ; as 'tis said, 

The old man gazed for a moment hard 
and sharp in Dan Fisk's face. Then he 
said, " Come you two in," and turned into 
the room. 

There was a scuffling of feet, and Murrell 
turned again, "Not all o' that rabble," he 
said. " Tis Joe Barstow an 1 Elijah Weeley I 
want, an' Dan Fisk, Give me that jar" 

Joe and Elijah lumbered sheepishly in, 






each propelled by a hand of Dan. Cunning 
Murrell took something from a drawer in a 
dark corner, and, without looking at it, 
extended it behind him as he shut the 

" Take you the charm first, Elijah Weeley," 
he said. " Take it in your hand an* carry it 
to the light." 

Elijah took a small disc of copper, convex 
on its brighter side, and held it near the 
candle on the mantelpiece. Murrell stood 
apart, gazing on the floor, with his hand 
across his forehead. 

" Look you on the metal very close, Elijah 
Weeley," he said. " D'ye see anything ? " 

"Oh, aye, yes, Master Murrell, sir," 
answered Elijah, his face within an inch of 
the object, and his eyes protruding half the 
distance. "Aye, Master Murrell. Stands to 
reason I can see it— 'tis natural I should." 

"And why natural ? " 

"Why, Master Murrell? Why, 'cos 'tis 
my rum, you see." 

" Oh, that be your reason, eh ? Well, an' 
what is't you see ? " 

" What is't, Master Murrell, sir ? " 

" Aye, what is it ? " 

"Oh, it's a — a — what you might call a 
sort o' peculiar kind o' thing, so to say. Very 

" Ah, I make no doubt o' that," the old 
man replied, with ungenial meaning in his 
voice. " Describe that peculiar thing, Elijah 
Weeley," he added, still gazing on the 

" That, sir — that, Master Murrell, is easier 
said than done, as you might say, not mean- 
in' no harm, sir. But stands to reason I 
can see it, Master Murrell, consekens o' 
that bein' my rum. That's argyment, now, 
ain't it ? " 

"Aye, 'tis argyment, but not information. 
If you can see it, Elijah Weeley, tell me 
what 'tis you see. Is it like a horse, for 
instance ? " 

" Well, sir, as to that, Master Murrell, 'tis 
most likely you'd be right, sir, bent it?" 

"Aye, it is, Elijah Weeley. Go on." 

"Why, sir, that bein' so, sir, Master 
Murrell, sir, you be right, an' most wonderful 
scientific, sartin to say, an' now I come to 

look at it 'tis most powerful like a hoss — 
quite wonderful ; more like than most real 
hosses, as you might say.". 

" Wonderful, Elijah Weeley, wonderful. 
Give Joe Barstow the charm. Can you see 
a hoss, Joe Barstow ? " 

"Aye, yes, Master Murrell, sartenly," 
answered that politician, eagerly, almost 
before he had snatched the charm. "Two 
on 'em ! " he proceeded, bidding higher 
again. "Two on 'em, with saddles!" 

"With saddles?" exclaimed Murrell, 
raising his eyes and reaching Joe in a stride. 
" Saddles ? What's this you're looking at, Joe 
Barstow ? " 

" Lookin' at ? Why, the charm, Master 
. Murrell, sir ! The charm ! " 

"The charm? That? Why, 'tis the lid 
o' my darter's copper kettle, put by for a 
new rim an' handle ! I must ha' took it by 
mistake. An' you saw hosses in it ! Two 
hosses with saddles ! 'Twould seem to me 
this here kettle-lid be as good a charm as any 
with the likes o' you, Joe Barstow an' Elijah 
Weeley. It tell plain enough that you be liars 
both ! An' 'tis a kettle-lid ! Hosses and 
saddles ! Oh, 'tis shameful to reflect on the 
depravity of the age ! To think that two 
grown men should walk about the face of 
this earth with lies that any kettle-lid can 
contradict ! " 

Terrible in his righteous wrath, the old 
man shook his head in the cowed faces of 
Joe and Elijah, seized the jar of rum, pushed 
it into a cupboard and locked the door on it. 

" After what I've larned of you, I misdoubt 
much how you came by that jar," he said, 
" an' 'twould be abettin' your wickedness to 
let it out o' my charge ; an' so I do my duty, 
in face of the wickedness o' these times. 
Take them two out with you, Dan Fisk; I 
want no such characters as them in my 
house ! " 

This was certainly the last occasion on 
which anybody had the temerity to inquire 
for the copper charm. And it was months 
ere the jar was seen again ; when it was 
observed to be a jar of rum no longer, for 
Cunning Murrell was using it to carry horse 
medicine, a thing in which he drove a thriving 

by Google 

Original from 

The Comic Side of Crime. 


Written and Illustrated by HARRY FURNIS5. 

has been a 
m atter so 
customary to 
look upon 
crime as 
tragedy and 
criminals as 
that to aver 
that comedy 
is more fre- 
quently to be 
found in crime 
than tragedy 
seems at first 
view paradoxi- 
cal. Yet such 
is the case. 
Very few people indeed ever see a crime 
committed or are aware they ever see 
a criminal in real life. They read about 
both in newspapers and in books, In 
novels, of course, there are tragedies with 
a vengeance t and the pen-portrait of the 
criminal leaves nothing to the imagination of 
those morbidly inclined, 

In the newspapers one continu* 
ally comes across incidents of 
comedy and crime. Old-timers — 
comedians of a sort — are frequently 
in the dock, and laughter in court 
is not unknown when a criminal is 
tried for his life. But the gene- 
rality of readers of newspapers 
rather frown at such innovations, 
and peruse, by way of antidote to 
such misplaced frivolity, the list 
of sentences the joker in the dock 
has already experienced, and nod 
assent to the judge's reprimand 
that "The court is not a theatre." 

There is, however, no laughter 
in a theatre when melodrama holds 
the audience. The criminal in a 
play is never a comedian ; the 
comedian is his friend or the 
friend of his unfortunate victim, 
"Comic Relief" he is called; he 
is introduced into the play not to 
modify but rather to intensify the 
seriousness of the tragedian, the 
villainy of the plot, and, further, to 

cut comedy out of the scenes into which 
crime enters* It is from melodramas and 
novels, to say nothing of shilling shockers 
and penny dreadfuls, that the public has 
derived the idea that crime is tragedy, 

'Hie swindler and thief must be a good 
comedian ; tragedy does not pay, It is 
better to please people you are robbing than 
to frighten them. To rush into a shop and 
molest the baker, then make off with his bread 
or his till, is not half so pleasant as to play a 
practical joke upon him with the same result 

The reason why Cockneys are such smart 
thieves is that they have a keen sense of 
humour. The street arab picks your pocket 
while he grins at you. It is only stupid 
thieves who are serious. Poor Oliver Twist's 
seriousness was the cause of his arrest. The 
humour of the Artful Dodger and Charley 
Bates saved them. 

There is a well-known story of a little 
London urchin who ran into a baker's shop 
and, placing a halfpenny on the counter, 
asked nervously and timorously; "Mister, 
J ave you a 'alfpenny buster (bun) ? " 




" Yes, my little man ; here is one 
quite hot." 

"Thanks, mister ; would you 
mind a-shovin' it down my back ?" 

" Down your back, my little man ! 
Why down your back ? " 

" 'Cos, sir, I'm only a little T un, 
and if those chaps outside know 
I've a buster they'll take it, and I 
am so \ingry, I am," 

" Dear mt: ; how wrong of them ! 
Come round here, my little chap. 
There— there, it is down your hack." 

The boy ran off. In nn instant 
another entered — a bigger boy, 

" I say, mister, J as a little boy just 
been in 'ere ? *' 


u And did 'e buy a 'alfpenny 
buster ? * 


''And did 'e arsk you to shove 
it down 'is back, as us big fellows 
would take it?" 


"Yah! Where's your watch and chain? 
'E's got 'em ; J e's just round the corner." 

Out rushed the baker. In a trice the big 
boy collared the till and bolted 

The shopman never saw the comic side of 
it all 

The pathetic story, also, is often replete 
with comedy. When or where I read or 
heard of the following incident, I forget ; 
it was many years ago, 

A poor little boy, looking half starved, and 
poorly clad, was playing a violin in the gutter 
one wet Saturday evening. He crawled along 
until he came in front of a butcher's shop. 

" Move on there, Paganini," cried the 
pompous proprietor at his door. 

" Oh I sir. Please, sir; I am so 'ungry, 
sir, I 'ave a- been play in' and playin', and not 
a crumb to eat all day, and I'm cold and wet 
and 'ungry. It's not meself I'm a-thinkin' of, 
sir, neither, but those at 'ome. There ain't 
nuthin' in the 'ouse, an' to-morrow is Sunday* 
Do guv us a piece of meat, there's a kind 

" Have you any money?" 

"Not a stiver, sir; earned nothin' all day. 
I am too cold to play any more, and there 
ain't no one about, Would would you, kind 
sir," plaintively, "take this violin? It's a good 
J un, I know, for me father is a violin mender, 
an' would you keep it till I can pay, and give 
us a few scraps o' meat— anything to take 
W? I can't face my parents with emptv 


Moved to pity, the butcher took the violin, 
gave the boy some meat, and when he had 
gone hung the violin on the hook from which 
he had removed the joint. 

Shortly afterwards a stranger entered, 
humming a tune, well-brushed hat on one 
side, dark, curly hair, black moustache, 
astrakhan collar and cuffs to his long over- 
coat, huge scarf pin, and silver knob to his 

"Good evening, butcher," he said "I'm 
rather late to call, but the fact is, we have 
been moving in all day. Taken No- 8, 
Crochet Terrace, you know. Egad ! forgot 
we had nothing in the house -pure forgetful- 
ness. People of my artistic nature are all 
alike — mind before matter. However, I see 
you are yourself a musician" — tapping the 
violin hanging on the hook with his cane. 

11 Me ? Oh, no, sir," replied the butcher 
"That is not mine. A boy left it in pawn— 
a poor street musician— and I gave him some 
meat for Sunday. He'll come and redeem 
it, for he had an honest face." 

" How interesting," said the stranger, 
taking down the violin and examining it. "A 
poor boy in the streets, indeed ! Well, he 
can afford a good violin ; egad, he can ! I'll 
give you twenty guineas for this at first 

"Twenty guineas!" gasped the butcher. 
"I only gave him eighteenpennorth of 
meat on it ; but there, it ain't mine, so back 




" You are right, butcher," said the affable 
stranger. "Of course, it is yours in trust, 
but tell the boy when he comes, and send 
round to me, Signor Bowie ; you will have 
your commission." 

In the meantime the signor ordered in a 
good stock of meat, and opened an account 
with the butcher. 

Shortly after he left in rushed an infuriated 
mm with the meat the butcher had given the 
boy in one hand and a stick in the other. 

" Here, take your precious meat and give 
me that violin ! Tve given it to that precious 
brat, I have. Do you know, I wouldn't part 
with that violin for 
five hundred pounds? 
And the brat knew 
it, too." 

"Then you starve," 
said the butcher, 
taking down the 

" Yes ; die rather 
than part with it," 

"I've taken a 
fancy to it," said the 
butcher, coolly — "a 
great fancy, I'm a 
bit of a judge and 
thought it a good 
one. I'll give you 
fifty guineas for it, 
and risk it" 

"It's worth ten 
times that," growled 
the man ; "but there, 
beggars can't bar- 
gain. Here, give us 
the money." He got 
it and departed. 

Signor Bowie's meat returned just after. 
"There ain't no one at No. 8," said his 

The butcher went himself, " No one ! " 
No one had moved into any house in the 
neighbourhood that day. He brooded over 
this fact all Sunday* The last act of the 
comedy was played on Monday, when he 
discovered from an expert that the value of 
the violin was exactly eighteenpence 1 

For a generation or two awestruck yokels 
have delighted in representations of crime, as 
performed in canvas theatres and travelling 
booths, and of all the blood-curdling plays 
in the repertoire of these " penny gaffs " none 
is more popular than "The Murder in the 
Red Barn/' The title alone is sufficient to 
make the blood run cold, particularly when 
one is assured that the drama is true to life 



and a faithful representation of the real 
murder of Maria Marten in the real barn, 

I recollect being in a provincial town one 
Saturday evening, and having nothing parti- 
cular to du I was attracted by an advertise- 
ment of the play outside a canvas theatre 
pitched in a miserable no-man's land down 
by a dark and sluggish river. It was a miser- 
ably foggy night, just one " to fit the crime," 
or rather to put one in a proper state of 
mind to take the play on its morbid 
merits. Certainly there was no crowd ; a few 
stragglers only— students of human nature r 
like myself, perhaps — approached the temple 
of the drama- At the door sat 
a comfortable, middle-aged lady, 
nither stout, and wearing spec- 
tacles. She laid aside her 
knitting to give me twopence 
change out of the sixpence I laid 
down for a stall. 
Judging from the 
desert ed ap peara nee 
of the theatre, the 
fourpence I paid 
covered all the front 
forms of the stalls, 
or pit, where I sat. 
A few boys and girls 
were scattered in 
couples up in the 
corners behind me, 
and three men com- 
posed the orchestra. 
One sat in front of a 
remnant of a piano ; 
another was dozing, 
with a violin in his 
hand ; the third was 
blowing through the 
wrong end of an old battered comet, which 
emitted no noise, and was evidently clogged, 
for he had just been playing it outside the 
theatre and had been a target for some boys 
pelting him with turf. 

To slow music the curtain rose. Two 
countrymen entered, and thus the play 
began. They had not been talking long of 
the Red Barn — which, by the way, formed 
the background — before the villain of the 
play entered— a huge, flit creature, with long, 
black, malted hair, tremendous eyebrows, a 
red nose, and a gin -\ sodden voice. All the 
business up to this time was impressively 
serious, A tragedy was brewing, and there 
was no comic relief, except the orchestra. 

The actors performed for all they were 
worth, and a * l^ st ^ e nioment came for the 

heroine to a-near. The villain went off to 
^p-pri q i n 3 1 from 




fetch her. Cries 

11 off " announced 

the fact that he 

had caught hen 

My eyes were 

attracted to the 

O.P. side, where I 

saw the old stout 

lady who had taken 

my fourpenre at 

the door undo her 

scanty hair at the 

back and let it 

down. Then she 

took her spectacles 

off — screaming all 

the time— and put 

them deliberately 

in a case and then into her pocket, The 

villain of the play meantime was standing 

beside her, shouting: il You are mine ! Ah ! 

fair wife, once in my embrace and m — 

m " Then he dragged her, still crying: 

fi Help ! Help ! Unhand me, monster, I 
am but a little village maiden," 

At this sentiment I so far forgot myself as 
to laugh aloud. 

The villain stopped, left the " maiden " 
(probably his mother) leaning against the 
door of the red barn, and came forward to 
the footlights with his eyes fixed on me. 

" Beg pardon j sir, but you haven't a bit 0' 
baccy about you, 'ave you ? " he said, quite 

" Sorry, I don't smoke a pipe," I said, " but 
will you accept these few cigars ? " which I 
handed to him over the piano. 

The tragedy then proceeded. 

Well, it strikes me that this ridiculous 
scene is really much more like the real thing 
than what we see in pictures or read in print. 
One reads of beautiful village maidens done 
to death, but they are often drunken old 
hangers-on at alehouses. 

Then the romantic rush and bustle and 
sudden death is more often a mawkish, dull, 
uninteresting episode, such as I saw in that 
booth — perhaps even comic — but ending, 
alas ! in some cases possibly by accident, in 
a death. Then romance enters and the deed 
is "reconstructed/ 5 as the French say, and 
endowed with artistic and romantic merit. 

Seldom is it that the victims in sordid 
murder cases are as prepossessing as the 
culprits. The old lady (Miss Hacker) who 
was done to death in E us ton Square years 
ago, and was found in a coal-cellar under the 
street, was a painted-up old fright, with false 
hair and gaudy, cheap attire. The heroine 

of the Moat Farm mystery was not much 
better, liven the murderers themselves 
have, as a rule, a humorous expression, very 
unlike the villain on the stage or in books. 
Whatever the upshot of crimes may be, the 
principal players are often comedians, and 
everything but the fatal act may be, and 
often is, supremely comic, 

I must return to this famous drama of the 
murder in the Red Barn to point out the 
absurdity of the stage representations of 
the kind- William Corder, who murdered 
Maria Marten in the Red Barn, was about as 
unlike a stage villain in melodrama as the 
old lady I saw play Maria was like the un- 
fortunate woman whom Corder murdered. 
To be true to the story the old lady I saw 
assume the part ought to have come on in 
her husband's clothes. I fancy the figure as 
something comic. The real Maria Marten 
was a young country girl, engaged to be 
married to the son of a wealthy farmer — 
William Corder. He obtained a marriage 
licence, and, wishing to keep the marriage a 
secret, called for Maria in a gig, induced her 
to disguise herself in a suit of his own 
clothes, and drove her off unobserved to the 
Red Barn on his father's estate. There he 
murdered her and buried the body, and 
married another girl. 

For a year the disappearance of Maria 
Marten remained a mystery, but in a year's 
time her distracted mother dreamed three 
times that her daughter had been murdered 
and buried in the Red Barn, and actually 
pointed to the spot where, under a quantity 
of corn, Corder had artfully concealed her 
after the murder, Buried deep in the ground 
they found the remains of her daughter. 
Corder, now a married man, was, with his 
wife, carrying on a school for young ladies 





at the address — Grove House, Ealing Lane, 
Brentford ! He had obtained his wife by 
advertising, a few weeks after he had murdered 
Maria Marten. The comic side of the tragedy 
is surely the wording of that advertisement : — 

" Should this meet the eye of any agreeable 
lady who feels desirous of meeting with a 
sociable, tender, kind, and sympathetic com- 
panion, she will find this advertisement worthy 
of not ice. 1 ' 

The story of Maria, the labourer's daughter, 
the son of the rich farmer, the discovery of 
the murder by dreams, and the cold-blooded 
murderer's selection 
of the Red Barn, 
accounts for the 
simple story being 
still so popular with 
country folk- The 
men's clothes and 
the advertisement 
are forgotten. 

Sometimes the 
madman in his 
criminality may be 
bordering on the 
comic. There is a 
well-known instance 

of an artist, who eventually ended his days 
in Broadmoor, being called upon one day by 
a brother artist who, not getting a reply when 
he knocked at the studio door, peered in 
through the glass partition and saw a row of 
sketches of artists all hanging dead from the 
gallows, with the name under each victim, his 
own being among them. As he gazed at this 
startling display he felt something scraping 
at his feet, and looking down was surprised 
to see an open razor, which projected from 
under the door, being rapidly moved from 
side to side — " to cut off his toes," He beat 
a hasty retreat. 

Hut there are crimes even much less 
serious than cutting the toes off your friend 
that are replete with comedy. The ingenious 
swindler, for instance, must have a keen sense 
of humour, or he would not be successful. 
Indeed, if the victims of criminals were to 
show more ready wit, they would scare more 
offenders, and save themselves far more 
effectually than by screaming and fruitless 
attempts to attack the scoundrels. 

Vanity, 1 venture to say, has much to do 
with crime* Authorities are ever seeking for 
a "motive" in crime. Men have been done 
to death for a few shillings. That motive is 
"greed," but many crimes are simply the 
acts of conceit. Kgotism is a disease, and 
accounts in one way or the other for two 


classes of people who find themselves in the 
grip of the law. 

One has only to watch the basest criminals 
when doomed to death to see how this 
conceit — sometimes comic — asserts itself* 
Mrs. Manning, the notorious murderess, 
insisted upon being attired in black satin when 
she was to be hanged. Black satin was the 
favourite garb of society ladies at that period. 
After this murderesses appeal no one would 
wear it, and the merchants lost heavily. 

Rush, one of the most notorious murderers 
in the annals of crime, who shot Mr, Jermy 

and his son Isaac, 
and others, in Nor- 
folk, was a farmer. 
He was a ferocious, 
cold-b looded 

According to his 
portrait, Rush was 
a common sort of 
man, without 
humour. Vet his 
disguise when **on 
the job ,J was far 
funnier than any 
other criminal ever 
adopted — enough to frighten people out of 
their wits without the aid of his gun. 

As a contrast to criminals who are so vain 
as to dress for the part and act to the vulgar 
crowd at their execution, one cannot do 
better than select the most ludicrous figure 
that surely ever stood on the gallows — the 
great " Fighting Fitzgerald." 

It is necessary to point out that Captain 
George Robert Fitzgerald — to give him his 
correct name — was of good family, a member 
of the great house of Fitzgerald, and a direct 
descendant of Esmond Fitzgerald. He was 
educated at Eton and Trinity College, 
Dublin, joined the cavalry, and rose to the 
rank of captain, at the end of the eighteenth 
century. He was well off. A great man in 
society, both in London and Dublin, a world- 
famed duellist, but of the worst type— a bully. 
Yet there was no doubt of his wonderful 
record— twenty duels, only once scratched 
himself, and yet he accounted for eighteen 
opponents either killed or wounded. A 
braggadocio and a coward, he no doubt 
forced on these duels in which he had such 
a charmed existence. 

At last the secret came out— he wore a coat 
of mail under his shirt ! 

After this discovery he returned in dis- 
grace to the Jvmerald Isle and joined a set of 
blackguards/"-"DiaW3ws, and thieves. Attacks 




on persons and murder followed, and " Fight 
ing Fitzgerald, 1 ' the aristocratic duellist, the 
talk of the town, at last stood on the gallows. 

Now for the comic figure, 

"He was dressed in a ragged coat of the 
Castledown Hunt, a dirty flannel waistcoat 
and drawers, both 
of which were 
without buttons* 
brown worsted or 
yarn stockings, a 
pair of coarse 
shoes withou t 
buckles, and an 
old round hat tied 
round with a [lack- 
thread band. He 
fixed the rope 
round his own 
neck, first laying 
it bare by taking 
off his cravat and 
unbuttoning his 

some side of the 
subject, we may 
now go on to 
lighter crimes. 
There are, for 
example, many 
stories of the 
comic side of 
diamond rob- 
beries, from their 
robbery in the 

rough by Kaffirs and the "I.D.B." (illicit 
diamond buyer) to the theft of family jewels 
of the greatest antiquity, I have not come 
across anywhere in print one of the best 
stories I ever heard about the ingenuity of 
the Kaffir. In spite of every precaution the 
Kaffir outwits the overseers and searchers. 
Although he is stripped and searched every 
time he leaves and enters the claims^ and goes 
through all sorts of gymnastics and swallows 
all sorts of physic, he goes on robbing. 

When a Kaffir makes enough — honestly it 
is supposed, of course— he buys some cattle, 
and departs to find a wife and settle down, 
One of these men said good-bye merrily, 
shouldered his gun and, whistling, sauntered 
off, driving his cattle in front of him. Now, 
it was well known that he had robbed the 
mines, but no reason could be found for 
detaining him. The overseers saw him depart 
with great misgivings, and, after some time, 
as the dust raised by the tramp of his oxen 

F ICill T I N li FIT^O K R A L 1 J. 

vanished over the horizon, one of the over- 
seers cried: u Well, I'll risk it. Send after 
that fellow ; I'll have him back and we will 
search him once more." 

Mounted police were dispatched with 
authority to bring him back. When they 

stopped the Kaffir 
he became frantic 
with indignation, 
swore that he was 
honest and free, 
and that they 
were only jealous 
of his beasts. 4l If 
I have to return," 
he shouted in his 
frenzy, "you shall 
not have them," 
and raising his 
gun he shot them 
there and then. 

He was brought 
hack and searched, 
but nothing what- 
ever was dis- 
covered, yet it was 
known he had 
stolen many dia- 
monds* There 
was nothing to do 
but to set him 
free, and to re- 
compense him by 
giving him live 
cattle in place of 
those he had 
killed. These he 
indignantly declined to accept. He would go 
with those he had killed. His manner and 
curious resolve roused suspicions. He was 
detained until the cattle he had shot were cut 
open, Embedded in them were found the 
diamonds ! He had fired them into the 
beasts from the barrel of his gun ! 

That was a good old comedy bishop who 
one fine day entered a large jeweller's estab- 
lishment in Regent Street to make an 
extensive purchase of valuable presents. He 
selected them with great care as regards their 
artistic value, but quite regardless of cosL 
The proprietor and his assistants buzzed 
round his lordship. The selected valuables 
were packed in separate parcels at his sug- 
gestion neatly tied and sealed, and he had 
just taken a seat In the private office of the 
proprietor, and was feeling in his pocket for 
his cheque-book, when two men, who had 
been peering in at the glass door leading into 
the ..ntreet'^Mq^ta'^ the shop and stood 




behind the bishop. They were plainly 
dressed, sharp looking men, and thus bluntly 
addressed the jeweller : — 

" What has this man been ordering ? " 

The bishop looked up, saw the men, 
turned pale, clutched the sides of the chair, 
dropped his glasses, and looked as if he 
would bolt Before he could stir, however, 
the handcuffs were on his wrists. 

" Bishop, indeed t " said one of the men, 
u He was a colonel yesterday. Here, i bishop/ 
come along to Vine Street, ' Bishop/ indeed ! 
Ha ! ha ! Well, that's a good 'un ! " And 
turning to the astonished jeweller he con- 
tinued : "Just copped him in time, sir; 
lucky for you. Oh, by the way, you might 
get one of your assistants to bring round 
these parcels he has selected. We must 
enter them at the police-station ; we have a 
cab at the door, We have been tracking the 
bishop all the morning/' 

Without a word the " bishop " followed the 
detectives into the cab ; and all three got in, 
as the assistant came out with the valuables. 

* ( Here," said one of the detectives through 
the window ; " place those in here — they will 
be safer — and you get on the top with the 

It was not far to Vine Street, but, as usual, 
the traffic was congested in Oxford Circus, 
and the cab had to halt occasionally. It 
was, however, soon at the police-station. The 
assistant jumped off the driver's seat and 
opened the door. 

The cab was empty! 

This true story I related, or recalled rather 
— for it was reported in the papers when it 
occurred years ago — to some acquaintances. 

I : '.i i - ■ 


It may be, of course, a coincidence, but it 
provided a scene in the next years autumn 
drama at I»rury I^ane, together with another 
story I related at the same time, which in the 
drama was comic, but in reality I think is one 
of the most tragic stories 1 ever heard. 

A man at the diamond diggings is alone 
in his tent with his valuable "find." He has 
had luck and is only waiting for the morning 
to leave the camp, a rich man* 

Another man enters, points a pistol at him, 

and demands the diamonds or the man's life* 

The lucky digger raises his head from the 

book he is reading, and, taking the lighted 

dip out of the candlestick* says : — 

"Here is your reply. This barrel is full 
up to the brim with gunpowder. See, I stick 
this lighted candle into it, Now, which of 
us will remain here the longest ?" 
The intruder flew. 

To me that man who stuck his lighted 
candle into an open barrel of gunpowder is 
the pluckiest man I ever heard of. 

Perhaps there is one exception. It is a 
similar old story, but perhaps little known — 
till the next Drury Lane drama appears. 

Scene ; A barber's shop near a diamond 
mining camp, 

A thickly-bearded, devil-may-care, strong 
brute of a fellow swaggers in and calls to the 
timid, poor little barber ; — 

"Say, shave ! ,J Here he flings his money 
on the marble slab on one side and his six- 
shooter on the other. "There's five dollars 
for you if you give me a clean shave ; but, 
by Heaven ! if you draw a drop of blood 
I'll blow your brains out So take yer choice ! " 
The barber shaves the desperado and 

draws no blood ; it 
is a tough job, but 
he does it, 

" You're a plucky 
little beggar, you 
are," remarks the 
shaved one t with 
some admiration, 
M for I am a man 
of my word. Here 
are your five 
dollars ; but, by 
Heaven! if you had 
cut me you were 
a dead r un." 

" Oh, dear no 3 " 

replies the barber, 

pocketing the 

dollars. "You 

(V^ic see > ' should havc 

UNIVERSITY OF MlC^f-J 1 the b,ood 



first, and then I would have cut your 
throat ! " 

The story of the £t bishop " and his eon- 
federates, related earlier in this chapter, 
recalls to mind other clever thieves who with 
a sense of humour prey upon those without 

1 think the following story -I forget really 
where I heard it f or read it s many years 
ago— was in connection with the eccentric 
Duke of Brunswick, who in the middle of the 
nineteenth century was well known to have a 
mania for collecting diamonds and other 
precious stones. 

The Duke was a painted, made-up old 
voluptuary, who shunned society and pub- 
licity of all kinds. He lived in different 
places, but his principal horne was in Paris, 

there, and no one seemed to notice him. At 
a table some distance away sat a rather seedy- 
looking youth with pale face, long hair, and 
delicate white hands. With one hand he 
toyed with his spoon, sugar, and absinthe ; 
with the other he raised his cigarette to his 
mouth, and then passed his fingers through 
his dark hair. Occasionally he sighed heavily 
as though some sorrow weighed upon his 
mind, hut he did not turn his face, 

The Duke was attracted by this figure and 
kept his eyes upon the youth. Presently 
something interested the Duke, He 
rose and walked near to where the seedy 
youth sat. Then he started, looked round 
to his companions, and beckoning to one, 
asked him to invite the lonely young man to 
join their table. 

\ v - 

the dukk was attkactf.d uv this kIcilihk, 

where he secluded himself in a funny old 
mansion, more like a huge safe than anything 
else, with thick walls, doors barred and bolted 
like a prison, and wires laid and attached 
to revolvers and alarms, so that the approach 
of any intruder would be at once made 
known. His one idea was that he would he 
robbed, that the eye of every criminal was 
upon him. No one saw this Aladdin's cave 
but the Duke himself. He gloated in secret 
over his gems, particularly his wonderful 
diamonds. His chief safe was built behind 
iron doors at the head of his bed, secured by 
iron locks of special and ingenious manufac- 
ture, over which hung a handsome curtain. 

The Duke paid fabulous prices for rare 
stones, of which he was an excellent judge. 
It so happened that he was in some provin- 
cial town with a companion or two incognito, 
in search of rare gems, and went into a cafe 
for some refreshment Kew others were 

When the youth languidly sat down, and 
once more drew his left hand through his 
long curls, it was evident what had attracted 
the Duke, On the third finger the stranger 
wore a huge diamond ring— a single stone of 
great brilliancy. 

It was not long before the Prince led up 
to the topic of the ring -a ring, by the way, 
extraordinarily out of keeping with its wearer. 

"Touring these parts?'* asked the Duke* 

u Yes, professionally, sir ; I am a singer 
in the opera at present performing in this 

"All celebrated singers, no doubt?" put 
in the Prince. 

** Oh, dear no; a fourth rate travelling 
little company, It would not pay good com- 
panies to come to such a poor town as this/ 1 

M We are not rich here, certainly," said the 
Duke, laughing ; - "-but I see, judging by the 
rinc von wear, our entertainers are " 




"This ring?" said the young vocalist, 
languidly. " Oh, that is merely glass, value 
two francs rifty. It was given me on the eve 
of my departure from Paris by my fiancee. 
She is a poor but charming young lady> and 
we bought it together. Two francs fifty/* 

" Will you allow me to examine it?" said 
the Duke, politely, putting out his hand for 
the ring as he spoke. 

" Certainly, with pleasure," said the young 
man, handing the ring to the Duke. 
" Wonderful how they make it for the 
money, is it not ? Though it is only glass, 
there is some skill in the way it is made," 

"Only glass, young man!" said the 
astonished Duke, after examining the jewel 

cc Are you serious ? " asked the young man, 
with a look of bewilderment. 

"Quite," replied the Duke, calmly. "I 
back the opinion of my expert here. Can 
you not send for the young lady and ask 
her permission? " 

"She is in Paris. I have no money— she 
has no money for the journey." 

" Oh, here arc a hundred francs for you ; 
send for her." 

In due course the young lady arrived, 
excited and delighted. She was accompanied 
by her old father and mother. The Prince 
repeated his offer. The blushing girl 

"It seems robbery/ 1 she said t " for I assure 


carefully. "I shall back my opinion hy 
offering you two thousand five hundred francs 
for it at first sight." 

"Two thousand five hundred francs! 
Why, that's a fortune ! " said the young man, 
excitedly, "Yet, sir, if you offered me ten 
times that — aye, twenty times that ! — I would 
not part with it^ for it is a love-token from 
my Emile, and is therefore more to poor me 
than any money you can offer." 

The Duke had handed the ring to the man 
on his right, who was an expert in diamonds, 
and he whispered something to the Duke. 

"Think, young man," said the Duke, 
laughing. ** I do offer you twenty times 
more ! You could then marry this young 
lady, and buy another glass ring." 

by Google 

you, sir, it is only glass. I called at the shop 
before I left Tar is, and they showed me 
hundreds of others, two francs fifty each. 
They said they had not a real diamond in 
the shop," 

"They have not, possibly, now, mademoi- 
selle, but they had when you bought this. 
Here is the money, all in gold too." 

The girl clapped her hands with glee and 
threw her arms round her lover, " Now we 
can get married and be happy for ever," she 

Then a pretty little incident happened. 

"To show von,' 1 she said, " what I paid 
for that rin™ I have brought with me the 
little box I bought it in. See the price on 
the back P ^y ould you like to have it ? " 
Original from 



" Yes, thanks, I place the ring in it, and 
close it so." 

The Duke, laughing, pocketed the box and 

The happy singer and his lady-love and 
the overjoyed parents caught the train back 
to Paris. Their departure was a pretty 
picture, enjoyed as much by the lucky Duke 
as anyone. 

That night the Duke gave a dinner at the 
hotel to a few friends to celebrate his great 
find. After dinner he produced the box with 
the ring in it, and, after telling its romantic 
story and of the incident of the day, he 
handed it to his expert to pass down the 
table for his guests to inspect. 

The expert opened the box and looked at 
the ring. His face turned pale, he jumped 
up and cried " Mon Dieu ! It's glass ! " 

Here is a somewhat similar story, full of 

Some foreigners of distinction arrived in 
Paris and hired rooms in the most fashion- 
able quarter. The principal visitor sent for 
one of the best-known diamond merchants 
and jewellers. 

The distinguished man, who was alone in 
his spacious reception-room, informed the 
merchant that he was anxious to make 
purchases of the finest and largest diamond 
ornaments money could buy for his wife's 

In a few hours the jeweller returned with 
a large bag full of the most valuable assort- 
ment of gems and artistic designs of the 
goldsmith's art, fit for a queen. 

" One thing I must ask," said the princely 
purchaser, " is absolute secrecy. My 
wife must not know I am buying these 
jewels. I have just made a huge fortune, and 
this is to be her surprise — but it must be a 
surprise — you understand ; if she comes in, 
you hide these." 

The jeweller bowed. 

The selection was going on when a female 
voice called down the stairs : " Frederick, are 
you there ; where are you ? " 

" My wife's voice ! " 

The sounds came nearer, as though the 
lady was descending the stairs to the room 
where the two men were. 

" Here," hurriedly whispered the husband, 
" hide those jewels. That's right, tumble 
them into the bag. Now, where can we 

place them ? She must not see the bag, or 
her suspicions will be aroused." 

The men looked about the large apart- 
ment. A cabinet stood at one end. It was 
locked. They rushed to a side table at the 
other end ; that also was locked. A hand- 
somely-carved little secretaire stood close 
to the door against the wall ; it opened. 
Capital ! Into that the jeweller shot his 
precious bag, and the husband slammed 
down the lid. It was the work of a few 
moments. The voice was on the landing. 
The husband rushed out, saying to the 
jeweller : " She must not see you ; wait till I 
return," then slammed the door of the room 
and departed. 

The jeweller heard him say : " Ah, my love, 
is that you? Come along here. I have — 
m — m " Then the voice died away. 

The merchant sat and waited ; half an 
hour went — an hour — an hour and a 
quarter. He got impatient. He would ring 
and summon a servant, and send a polite 
message to the gentleman, reminding him 
there was someone still waiting to see him 
in the reception-room. He could find 
no bell. He opened the door and looked 
out ; he could see no one. He called ; 
no one answered. He returned to his 
chair and sat down to think. " These 
foreign swells are a forgetful lot apparently. 
I'll take back my property and call again." 
He went to the secretaire ; it was locked ! 
He tried the lid ; it would not open. He 
got excited, and grasping a poker he smashed 
the lid. The secretaire was empty ! He 
thrust in his arm ; it went right through the 
back of it. He thrust in the poker; it went 
farther, and seemed to touch the sides of 
masonry much deeper than the article of 
furniture. He tried to pull away the secre- 
taire; it was fixed fast to the wall. He 
rushed out of the room and looked at the 
back of the masonry. 

That was the end of the comic scene. 
There was a large hole in the wall right 
through to the secretaire, from which the 
paper had recently been burst open from the 
inside. It was through this that the bag of 
precious jewels had been thrust as the fond 
"wife "came downstairs and was joined by 
her rich and generous husband. 

The "surprise" was arranged for the 

\ \( { To be continued.) ' 



T may be that it was a form of 
madness. Or it may be that 
he really was what is called 
haunted. Or it may — though 
I don't pretend to understand 
how — have been the develop- 
ment, through intense suffering, of a sixth 
sense in a very nervous, highly-strung nature. 
Something certainly led him where They 
were. And to him they were all one. 

He told me the first part of the story, and 
the last part of it I saw with my own eyes. 

Haldane and I were friends even in our 
schooldays. What first brought us together 
was our common hatred of Visger. He came 
from our part of the country, and his people 
knew our people at home, so he was put on 
to us when he came. He was the most in- 
tolerable person, boy and man, that I have 
ever known. He would not tell a lie. And 
that is all right, of course. But he didn't 
stop at that. If he were asked whether any 
other chap had done anything — been out of 
bounds, or up to any sort of lark — he would 
always say : " I don't know, sir, but I believe 
so." He never did know — we took care of 
that. But what he believed was always right. 
I remember Haldane twisting his arm to 
make him say how he knew about that 
cherry-tree business, and he only said : " I 
didn't know — I just felt sure. And I was 
right, you see." What can you do with a 
boy like that ? 

We grew up to be men. At least, Haldane 
and I did. Visger grew up to be a prig. 
He was a vegetarian and a teetotaller, and an 
all-wooler and a Christian Scientist, and all 
the things that prigs are— but he wasn't a 
common prig. He knew all sorts of things 
that he oughtn't to have known, that he 
couldn't have known in any ordinary decent 
way. It wasn't that he found things out. 

He just knew them. Once when I was very 
unhappy he came into my rooms — we were 
all in our last year at Oxford — and talked 
about things I hardly knew myself. That 
was really why I went to India that winter. 
It was bad enough to be unhappy without 
having that beast knowing all about it. 

I was away over a year. Coming back I 
thought a lot about how jolly it would be to 
see old Haldane again. If I thought about 
Visger at all I wished he was dead. But I 
didn't think about him much. 

I did want to see Haldane. He was 
always such a jolly chap — gay and kindly 
and simple, honourable, upright, and full of 
practical sympathies. I longed to see him, 
to see the smile in his jolly blue eyes looking 
out from the net of wrinkles that laughing 
had made round them, to hear his jolly laugh, 
and feel the good grip of his big hand. I 
went straight from the docks to his chambers 
in Gray's Inn, and I found him cold, pale, 
anaemic, with dull eyes and a limp hand, and 
pale lips that smiled without mirth and 
uttered a welcome without gladness. 

He w f as surrounded by a litter of dis- 
ordered furniture and personal effects half 
packed. Some big boxes stood corded, and 
there were cases of books filled and waiting 
for the enclosing boards to be nailed on. 

"Yes, I'm moving," he said. "I can't 
stand these rooms. There's something rum 
about them — something devilish rum. I 
clear out to-morrow." 

The autumn dusk was filling the corners 
with shadows. " You got the furs," I said, 
just for something to say, for I saw the big 
case that had held them lying corded among 
the others. 

"Furs?" he said. "Oh, yes. Thanks, 
awfully. Yes. I forgot about the furs." 
He laughed, out of politeness, I suppose, for 
there was no joke about the furs. They were 
many and fine—the test I could get for 





money, and I had seen them parked and sent 
off when my heart was very sore, He stood 
looking at me, and saying nothing, 

"Come out and have a bit of dinner," I 
said, as cheerfully as I could. 

"Too busy," he answered, after the slightest 
possible pause and a glance round the room* 
"Look here — I'm awfully glad to see you. If 
you'd just slip over and order in dinner — I'd 
go myself — only — well, you see how it is." 

I went. And when I came back he bad 
cleared a space near the fire and moved his 
big gate table into it. We dined there by 
candlelight. I tried to be amusing. He, I 

am sure, tried to be 
amused. We did not 
succeed, either of us. 
And his haggard eyes 
watched me all the 
lime, save in those 
fleeting moments when, 
without turning his 
head, he glanced back 
over his shoulder into 
the shadows that 
crowded round the little 
lighted place where we 

When we had dined, 
and the man had come 
and taken away the 
dishes, I looked at him 
very steadily, so that he 
stopped in a pointless 
anecdote and looked 
interrogation at me + 
"Well?" I said. 
"You're not listen- 
ing/' he said, petulantly. 
"What's the matter?" 

"That's what you'd 
better tetl me," I said. 

He was silent — gave 
one of those furtive 
glances at the shadows, 
and stooped to stir the 
fire to — I knew it— a 
blaze that must light 
every corner of the 

"You're all to pieces/' 

I said, cheerfully. 

" What have you been 

up to — whisky, bridge, 

Stock Exchange? If 

you won't tell me you'll 

have to tell your doctor 

Why, my dear chap, 

you're a wreck." 

" You're a comfortable friend to have 

about the place," he said, and smiled a 

mechanical smile not at all pleasant to see. 

" I'm the friend you want, I think/' said I. 
"Do you suppose I'm blind? Something's 
gone wrong and you've taken to something 
— morphia, perhaps. And you've brooded 
over the thing till you've lost all sense of 
proportion. Out with it, old chap. Bet 
you half a dollar it's not so bad as you 
think it," 

" If I could tell you — or tell anyone/' he 
said, slowly j "it "vcuWu't be so bad as it is. 



even as it is, I've told you more than I've 
told anyone else." 

I could get nothing more out of him. But 
he pressed me to stay — would have given me 
his bed and made himself a shake-down, he 
said. But I had engaged my room at the 
Victoria, and I was expecting letters. So I 
left him, quite late, and he stood on the 
stairs holding a candle over the banisters to 
light me down. 

When I went back next morning he was 
gone. Men were moving his furniture into 
a long van with Somebody's Pantechnicon 
painted on it in big letters. 

He had left no address with the porter, 
and had driven off in a hansom with two 
portmanteaux — to Waterloo, the porter 

Well, a man has a right to the monopoly 
of his own troubles if he chooses to have it. 
And my letters had taught me that I had 
troubles of my own to keep me busy. 


It was more than a year later that I saw 
Haldane again. I had got rooms in the 
Albany by this time, and he turned up there 
one morning, very early indeed — before 
breakfast, in fact. And if he had looked 
ghastly before, he now looked almost ghostly. 
His face looked as though it had worn thin, 
like an oyster-shell that has for years been 
cast up twice a day by the sea on a shore all 
pebbly. His hands were thin as a bird's claws, 
and they trembled like caught butterflies. 

I welcomed him with enthusiastic cordiality 
and pressed breakfast on him. This time, I 
decided, I would ask no questions. For I 
saw that none were needed. He would tell 
me. He intended to tell me. He had come 
here to tell me, and for nothing else. 

I lit the spirit-lamp — I made coffee and 
small talk for him, and I ate and drank and 
waited for him to begin. And it was like 
this that he began. 

" I am going," he said, " to kill myself — 
oh, don't be alarmed" — I suppose I had said 
or looked something — " I sha'n't do it here, 
or now. I shall do it when I have to — when 
I can't bear it any longer. And I want 
someone to know why. I don't want to feel 
that I'm the only soul that does know. And 
I can trust you, can't I ? " 

I murmured something reassuring. 

" I should like you, if you don't mind, to 

give me your word that you won't tell anyone 

at all what I'm going to tell you, as long 

as I'm alive. Afterwards — you can tell whom 

^*O fOU please." 

I gave him my word. 

He sat silent, looking at the fire. Then 
he shrugged his shoulders. 

" It's extraordinary how difficult it is to 
say it," he said, and smiled. " The fact is 
— you know that beast George Visger ? " 

" Yes," I said. " I haven't seen him since 
I came back. Someone told me he'd gone 
to some island or other to preach vegetarian- 
ism to the cannibals. Anyhow, he's out of 
the way, bad luck to him." 

u Yes," said Haldane, "he's out of the 
way. But he's not preaching anything. In 
point of fact, he's dead." 

" Dead ? " was all I could think of to say. 

" Yes," said he ; " it's not generally known, 
but he is." 

" What did he die of ? " I asked, not that 
I cared. The bare fact was good enough 
for me. 

" You know what an interfering chap he 
always was. Always knew everything. Heart- 
to-heart talks, and have everything open and 
above-board. Well, he interfered between me 
and someone else — told her a pack of lies." 

" Lies ? " 

" Well, the things were true, but he made 
lies of them the way he told them— you 
know." I did. I nodded. " And she 
threw me over. And she died. And we 
weren't even friends. I couldn't see her — 

before — I couldn't even Oh, my God ! 

But I went to the funeral. He was there. 
They'd asked him. And then I came back 
to my rooms. And I was sitting there, 
thinking. And he came up." 

" He would do. It's just what he would 
do. The beast. I hope you kicked him 

" No. I didn't. I listened to what he'd 
got to say. He came to say no doubt it was 
all for the best. And he hadn't known the 
things he told her. He'd only guessed. He'd 
guessed right, curse him — like he used to at 
school — you remember ? What right had he 
to guess right ? And he said it was all for 
the best, because besides that there was 
madness in my family. He'd found that out 
too " 

" And is there ? " 

" If there is I didn't know it. And that 
was why it was all for the best. So then I 
said, ' There wasn't any madness in my family 
before ; but there is now,' and I got hold of 
his throat. I am not sure whether I meant 
to kill him. I ought to have meant to kill 
him. Anyhow I did kill him. What did 
you say?" Q r j, a | f r ,-, 

1 ^I^ITTfthBllCHferfB not eas y t0 



think at once of the tactful and suitable 
thing to say when your old friend tells you 
that he is a murderer. 

"When I could get my hands out of his 
throat — it was as difficult as it is to drop the 
handles of a galvanic battery — he was then: 
in a lump on the hearthrug. And I saw what 

rid of but the man— no weapon, no blood. 
And I got rid of him all right." 


He smiled cunningly, 

"No, no," he said; "that's where I draw 
the line. It's not that I doubt your word, 
but if you talked in your sleep, or had a fever 


Fd done. How is it that murderers ever get 
found out ? " 

" They're careless sometimes, I suppose," 
I found myself saying, "They lose their 

"I didn't," he said. " I never was calmer. 
I sat down in the big chair and looked at 
him and thought it all out He was just 
off to that island - I knew that. Hed 
said good- bye to everyone. He'd told me 
that There was no blood to get rid of 
—or only just a touch at the corner of his 
slack mouth. He wasn't going to travel in 
his own name because of interviewers, Mr. 
Somebody Something's luggage would be 
unclaimed and his cabin empty. No one 
would guess that Mr. Somebody Something 
was Sir George Visger, Baronet It was all 
as plain as plain. There was nothing to get 

Vol. jfjfxvL— 37 

or anything ? No, no, As long as you don't 
know where the body is, don't you see, I'm 
all right. Even if you could prove that IVe 
said all this, which you can't it's only thjL: 
wanderings of my poor unhinged brain. See ? JJ 

I saw. And I was very sorry for him. 
And I did not believe that he had killed 
Visger, He was not the sort of man who 
kills people. So I said : — 

ht Yes, old chap. I see. Now, look here, 
Let you and me go away together — travel a 
bit and see the world, and forget all about 
that beastly chap." 

His eyes lighted up at that 

"Why," he said, "you understand! You 
don't hate me and shrink from me. I wish 
I'd told you before — you know — when you 
came antfjfiflYpjS packing up my sticks. But 




"Too late? Not a bit of it," I said. 
"Come, we'll pack right away and be off 
to-night — out into the unknown, don't you 

" That's where Ttn going," he said. " You 
wait. When you've heard what's been happen- 
ing to me you won't be so keen to go 
into the unknown with me." 

" But you've told me what's been happen- 
ing to you," I said. And the more I thought 
about what he had told me the less I 
believed it. 

" No," he said, slowly, " no ; I've told you 
what happened to him. What happened to 
me is quite different. Did I tell you what 
his last words were ? Just when I was 
coming at him— before I'd got his throat, you 
know — he said, 'Look out ! You'll never be 
able to get rid of the body. Besides, anger's 
sinful.' You know that way he had^ like a 
tract on its hind legs ? So afterwards I got 
thinking of that. But I didn't think of it for 
a year, because I did get rid of his body all 
right. And then I was sitting in that com- 
fortable chair, and I thought, ' Halloa, it 

must be about a year now since that ' 

and I pulled out my pocket-book and went 
to the window to look at a little almanac I 
carry about — it was getting dusk— and sure 
enough ft was a year to the day. And then 
I remembered what he'd said, and I said to 
myself, ' Not much trouble about getting rid 
of your body, you brute.' And then I 

looked at the hearthrug, and Ah ! " he 

screamed, suddenly and very loud, " I can't 
tell you — no, I can't!" 

My man opened the door— he wore a 
smooth face over his wriggling curiosity. 
" Did you call, sir ? " 

" Yes," I lied. " I want you to take a 
note to the bank and wait for an answer." 

When he was got rid of, Haldane said : 
"Where was I?" 

"You were just telling me what happened 
after you looked at the almanac. What 
was it?" 

" Nothing much," he said, laughing softly ; 
" oh, nothing much — only that I glanced at 
the floor ; and there he was, the man I'd 
killed a year before. Don't try to explain, 
or 1 shall lose my temper. The door was 
shut. The windows were shut. He hadn't 
been there a minute before. And he was 
there then. That's all." 

Hallucination was one of the words I 
stumbled among. 

" Exactly what I thought," he said, trium- 
phantly ; " but — I touched it. It was quite 
real. Heavy, you know ? and harder than live 

people are, somehow, to the touch — more 
like a stone thing covered with kid the hands 
were, and the arms like a marble statue in a 
blue serge suit Don't you hate men who 
wear blue serge suits ? " 

" There are hallucinations of touch, too," 
I found myself saying. 

." Exactly what I thought," said Haldane, 
more triumphant than ever ; " but there are 
limits, you know — limits. So then I thought 
someone had got him out — the real him— 
and stuck him there to frighten me while 
my back was turned, and I went to the place 
where I'd hidden him, and he was there — 
.ab— just as I'd left him. Only— it was a 
year ago. There are two of him there now." 
; ' " My dear chap," I said, " this is simply 

" Yes," said he, " it is amusing. I find it 
so myself. Especially in the night when 1 
wake up and think of it I hope I sha'n't 
die in the dark, Winston. That's one of the 
reasons why I think I shall have to kill 
myself. I could be sure then of not dying 
in the dark." 

" Is that all ? " I asked, feeling sure that 
it must be. 

" No," said Haldane at once ; " that's not 
all. He's come back to me again. In a 
railway carriage it was. I'd been asleep. 
When I woke up there he was, lying on the 
seat opposite me. Looked just the same. 
Felt just the same. I pitched him out on 
the line in Red Hill Tunnel. And if I see 
him again I'm going out myself. I cant 
stand it. It's too much. I'd sooner go. 
Whatever the next world's like there aren't 
things like that We leave them here, in 
graves and boxes, and . . . You think I'm 
mad, but I'm not. You can't help me— no 
one can help me. He knew, you see. He 
said I shouldn't be able to get rid of the 
body. And I can't get rid of it. I 
can't ; I can't He knew. He always did 
know things that he couldrit know. But I'll 
cut his game short After all I've got the 
ace of trumps, and I play it on his next 
trick. I give you my word of honour, 
Winston, that I'm not mad." 

"My dear old man," I said, "I don't 
think you're mad. But I do think your 
nerves are very much upset Mine are a bit, 
too. Do you know why I went to India ? 
It was because of you and her. I couldn't 
stay and see it, though I wished for your 
happiness and all that, you know I did. 

And when I came back she— and you 

I^et's see it out together" I said. " You 

won't keep fancying things if you've got me 

U n I *' LrOl I r U r r-TTL n I'j A N 



to talk to. And I always said you weren't 
half a bad old duffer." 

" She liked you," he said. 

" Oh, yes," I said, " she liked me." 


That was how we came to go abroad 
together. I was full of hope for him. He'd 
always been such a splendid chap — so sane 
and strong. 1 couldn't believe that he was 
gone mad — gone for ever, I mean, so that 
he'd never come right again. Perhaps my 
own trouble made it easy for me to see 
things not quite straight. Anyhow, I took 
him away to recover his mind's health, 
exactly as I should have taken him away to 
get strong after a fever. And the madness 
seemed to pass away, and in a month or two 
we were pretty jolly, and I thought I had 
cured him. And I was very glad because of 
that old friendliness of ours, and because she 
had loved him and liked me. 

We never spoke of Visger. I thought he 
had forgotten all about him. I thought I 
understood how his mind, overstrained by 
sorrow and anger, had fixed on the man he 
hated and woven a nightmare web of horror 
round that detestable personality. And I 
had got the whip-hand of my own trouble. 
And we were as jolly as sandboys — soberish 
sandboys — together all those months. 

And we came to Bruges at last in our 
travels, and Bruges was very full, because of 
the exhibition. We could only get one room 
and one bed, so we tossed for the bed, and 
the one who lost the toss was to make the 
best of the night in the arm-chair. And the 
bed-clothes we were to share equitably. 

We spent the evening at a cafe chantant 
and finished at a beer hall, and it was late 
and we were sleepy when we got back to the 
Big Vine. I took our key from its nail in the 
concierge's room and we went up. We 
talked for a bit, I remember, about the town 
and the belfry and the Venetian aspect of the 
canals by moonlight, and then Haldane got 
into bed and I made a chrysalis of myself 
with my share of the blankets, and fitted the 
tight roll into the arm-chair. I was not at all 
comfortable, but I was compensatingly tired, 
and I was nearly asleep when Haldane roused 
me up to tell me about his will. 

" I've left everything to you, old man," he 
said. "I know I can trust you to see to 

" Quite so," said I; "and, if you don't 
mind, we'll talk about it in the morning." 

He tried to go on about it, and about 
what a friend I'd been, and all that ; but I 

shut him up and told him to go to sleep. 
But no. He wasn't comfortable, he said ; 
and he'd got a thirst like a lime-kiln. And 
he'd noticed that there was no water-bottle in 
the room. " And the water in the jug's like 
pale soup," he said. 

"Oh, all right," said I. "Light your 
candle and go and get some water, then, in 
Heaven's name, and let me get to sleep ! " 

But he said, " fto— you light it. I don't 
want to get out of bed in the dark. I might 
— I might step on something, mightn't I — 
or walk into something that wasn't therp 
when I got into bed ? " 

" Rot," I said ; " walk into your grand- 
mother ! " But I lit the candle all the same. 
He sat up in bed, looking at me — very pale 
— with his hair all tumbled from the pillow 
and his eyes blinking and shining. 

"That's better/' he said. And then, "I 
say — look here. Oh— yes— I see. It's all 
right. Queer how they mark the sheets here. 
Blest if I didn't think it was Wood, just for 
the minute." 

The sheet was marked, not at the corner, 
as sheets are marked at home, but right in 
the middle where it turns down, with big red 

" Yes, I see," I said ; " it is a queer place 
to mark it." 

" It's queer letters to have on it," he 
said. " G. V." 

"Grande Vigne," I said. "What letters 
do you expect them to mark things with? 
Hurry up." 

"You come too," he said. "Yes, it does 
stand for Grand Vigne, of course. I wish 
you'd come down too, Winston." 

" I'll go down," I said, and turned with the 
candle in my hand. 

He was out of bed and close to me in a 
flash. " No," said he, " I don't want to stay 
alone in the dark." 

He said it just as a frightened child might 
have done. 

"All right, then, come along," I said. 
And we went. I tried to make some joke, I 
remember, about the length of his hair and 
the cut of his pyjamas — but I was sick with 
disappointment. For it was almost quite 
plain to me, even then, that all my time and 
trouble had been thrown away, and that he 
wasn't cured after all. 

We went down as quietly as we could, and 
got a carafe of water from the long bare 
dining-table in the salle h manger. He got 
hold of my arm at first, and then he got the 
candle away firixn me and went very slowly, 
shading the iiftht with bis. famd and looking 



he looked oveh ius shoulder every now and then, 

very carefully ell about, ^s though he ex- 
pected to see something that he wanted i r ery 
desperately not to see. And, of course, I 
knew what that something was. I didn't like 
the way he was going on. I can't at all 
express how deeply I didn't like it. And he 
looked over his shoulder every now and 
then, just as he did that first evening after 
1 came back from India. 

The thing got on my nerves so that I could 
hardly find the way back to our room* And 
when we got there I give you my word I 
more than half expected to see what he 
expected to see — that, or something like it, 
on the hearthrug. Hut, of course, there was 

I blew out the light and tightened my 
blankets round me — Fd been trailing them 
4^|r me in our expedition. And I was 

feeling for my chair when Hal- 
da tie spoke, 

"YouVegotal! the blankets," 
he said, 

u No, I haven't," said I ; 
u only what I've always had." 

"I can't find mine, then/* 
he said, and I could hear his 
teeth chattering. " And Fm 

cold. I'm For God's 

sake, light the candle! Light 
it ! Light it : Something 

horrible " 

And I couldn't find the 

" Light the candle — light 
the candle ! " he said, and his 
voice broke, as a boy's does 
sometimes in chapel. " If you 
don't hell come to me. It is 
so easy to come at anyone in 
the dark. Oh, Winston, light 
the candle, for the love of 
God ! I can't die in the dark." 
" I am lighting it," I said, 
savagely, and I was feeling for 
the matches on the marble- 
topped chest of drawers, on 
the mantelpiece — everywhere 
but on the round centre- 
table where I had put them, 
"You're not going to die. 
Don't be a fool," I said. "It's 
all right. Ill get a light in a 

He said, u It's cold. It's 
cold. It's cold/' like that, 
three times. And then he 
screamed aloud, like a woman, 
like a child, like a hare when 
the dogs have got it. I had heard him 
scream like that once before, 

** What is it ? " I cried, hardly less aloud. 
u For God's sake hold your noise ! What 
is it ? " 

There was an empty silence. Then, very 
slowly : — 

u It's Visger," he said And he spoke 
thickly, as through some stifling veil 

"Nonsense. Where?" I asked, and my 
hand closed on the matches as he spoke, 

" Here ! " he screamed, sharply, as though 
he had torn the veil away, u here ! Beside 
me, In the bed." 

I got the candle alight I got across to 

He was crushed in a heap at the edge of 
the bed. Sfcrdjchfcd i < :m ihe bed bevond him 



Haldane had died in the dark. 

It was all so simple. 

We had come to the wrong room. The 
man the room belonged to was there, on the 
bed he had engaged and paid for before he 
died of heart disease, earlier in the day, A 
French com mis pqyqgeur representing soap 
and perfumery : his name, Felix Leblanc. 

a police inspector with me when I opened 
the boxes that came to me by H aidant's will- 
One of them was the big box, metal lined, in 
which I had sent him the skins from India — 
for a wedding present, God help us all ! 

It was closely soldered. 

Inside were the skins of beasts. No — the 
bodies of two men. One was identified after 
some trouble as that of a hawker of pens in 


Later, in England, I made cautious in- 
quiries, '['he body of a man had been found 
in the Red I £ ill Tunnel— a haberdasher 
named Simmons, who had drunk spirits 
of salts, owing to the depression of trade. 
The bottle was clutched in his dead hand. 

For reasons that I had I took care to have 

City offices — subject to fits. He had died in 
one, it seemed. The other body was Visger's, 
right enough. Explain it as you like. 
I offered you, if you remember } a choice of 
explanations before I began this story. I 
have not yet found the explanation that can 
satisfy $fi qina | frorn 


Tlie Sun's enormous disc, the E^rth infinitely Mu.iller, attended by Us numile satellite, the Moon, and, at about fifty million 
miles from the Earth, the pin nut Mars— such as these four stars wuiild appear tcr the eyes of an inhabitant of Jupiter, 

shoeing in striking contrast their relative proportion*. 



The eminent French astronomer here takes us with him on a voyage through the immensity of celesttal 
space* In his company we scale, one afier the other. Thousands of stars— steps of a staircase without end 
stretching out on all sides round our planet and its satellite, the moon. 

1 1 K silent solitudes of the moon, 
distant as they are from us in 
terms of terrestrial measure- 
ment, are but the mere suburbs 
of our planet compared to the 
limitless immensity that lies 
beyond. Let us explore these regions together. 
Not far from here— not far, that is to 
say, astronomically speaking — at an average 
distance of something under fifty million 
miles, we come to a most interesting world. 
So many resemblances to our own abode 
do we discover at once, that we would 
be almost justified were we to jump to the 
conclusion that this world is placed where it 
is in order to enable us to adopt a juster 
conception of the Universe, and thus enter 
into more intimate relations with that 
bountiful Nature in whose bosom exist not 
only all the worlds, but all the beings 
inhabiting them. To this world we have 
""■^- given the name of Mars. 

On setting foot in Mars we are certainly in 
a foreign country, yet we very early realize 
that our new surroundings are by no means 
so unfamiliar as we at first imagined. Here, 
as in our world, we perceive lands and seas, 
as well as the alternations of seasons with all 
their innumerable variations, On our own 
Earth courageous explorers have in vain 
attempted to reach one or other of the Poles, 
which have so far baffled every effort; yet 
we have no difficulty in observing the Poles 
of Mars, the meteorology of which is quite 
familiar to us. In winter we see them don 
caps of snow , the size of which we can accu- 
rately measure. All the modifications of 
these snow-caps we are able to follow in 
detail until the caps almost totally disappear 
in the following summer. At times clouds, 
usually of the lightest consistence, may be 
perceived floating in the atmosphere. The 
climate of the planet appears to be most plea- 
sant, fine weather being practically perpetual, 




As I have already said, the state of things 
in Mars is not too unfamiliar. The planet 
revolves upon its axis, much as does the 
Earth, in 24hrs. 37min. 22'65sec. However, 
though the general conditions of life are 
similar to those in force on the Earth, life in 
Mars has nearly twice the duration it has 
here, since the Martian year counts six 
hundred and sixty-eight days. 

What, however, strikes us more than any- 
thing else while we are journeying to Mars 
are the rectilinear canals which form a sort of 
geometrically constructed web all over the 
continents. What are these canals ? This is 
a question which astronomers have been ask- 
ing one another for nearly thirty years now, 
ever since the day, in fact, when the enig- 
matic lines were observed for the first time 
by Schiaparelli, the Director of the Milan 
Observatory. The nature of the lines has 
been, and still is, the subject of a thousand 
different theories. " They are rivers," say 
some. " Such an explanation is out of the 
question," is the immediate objection. 
"These watercourses all originate either in 
a sea or a lake, and terminate in another 
sea or lake ; moreover their width does not 
increase as they progress." "The canals are 
the colossal enterprise of the Martian en- 
gineers," is yet another explanation often put 
forward. Other astronomers again close all 
discussion by laying it down that the canals 
have no real existence, but are merely the 
products of an optical illusion. 

And yet these furrows, or whatever they 
are, assuredly do exist, whether as water- 
courses or as vast prairie lands periodically 
flooded with water. 

Before any exact definition can be given 
of these dark tracings, however, much 
still remains to be accomplished. Thus 
much may be declared with certainty — 
the circulatory system of the waters on 
the surface of Mars is very different to 
that obtaining on the Earth. In Mars 
the periodical inundations caused each sum- 
mer by the melting of the snows appear 
to be distributed to great distances by this 
network of canals, which, assuming our hypo- 
thesis to be correct, constitute the most 
ingeniously contrived hydrographical system 
conceivable. Nor is such an hypothesis by 
any means incredible. At the same time, 
we must never lose sight of the fact that, even 
in the most favourable circumstances, at the 
epochs — that is to say, when Mars approaches 
most nearly to the Earth, and is only distant 
some forty millions of miles or so — the best 
astronomical instruments we possess, with a 

magnifying power of three thousand, can only 
bring the planet within an apparent distance 
of about twelve thousand five hundred miles. 

Suppose, now, we were able to mount 
in a balloon to such an altitude above the 
city of London, for instance, that our 
eyesight would reach the horizon at a 
distance of several thousand miles. In these 
circumstances, imagine us directing our gaze 
towards, let us say, St. Petersburg. Our 
imagination, inspired by reminiscences of 
what we had read from time to time in books 
and newspapers, would, no doubt, persuade 
us we saw very many things ; but our eyes 
would assuredly actually distinguish very few 
indeed. Now, the two cities I have named 
are distant from one another less than one 
thousand seven hundred miles— in other 
words, about one-eighth of the distance that 
intervenes between our eyes and the apparent 
image of Mars seen through a telescope in 
the most favourable conditions. Let us, 
then, be under no delusion as to our ac- 
quaintance with Martian affairs ; but, at the 
same time, there is no reason to lose courage. 
Have we not already a most curious geo- 
graphical map of the planet ? 

It was but yesterday — in 1877, to be 
exact — that we discovered the existence of 
the two small moons — no larger than the city 
of Paris — which revolve so rapidly round 

And yet when Mars lights his ruddy 
beacon in the dusky night, and shines and 
glitters amid the infinitude of the stars; 
when, our eye at the telescope, we leap at a 
bound across the space intervening between 
us and the planet ; when we observe how 
what was merely a luminous point has in- 
creased in size until it displays before our 
eyes its shores and its seas, its Polar capes 
and its enigmatical canals ; when from this 
Earth of ours we view those radiant dawns 
and sunsets in skies almost continuously pure 
and serene ; when we see vast countries 
overspread with winter's chilly mantle, and 
other countries in the very act of throwing 
off their icy coverings under the genial 
influence of an ardent sun shining through a 
summer twice the length of ours — when 
we observe all this, how, I ask, is it possible to 
prevent ourselves fancying, in presence of a 
spectacle so similar to the spectacle we are 
familiar with on our own Earth, that in 
Mars there must also be sentient beings — 
beings who, like us, can contemplate these 
natural phenomena? In their evening 
reveries these brings may often cast admir- 
ing glances ar. a magnificent r tar, the brightest 



in all their firmament — a star as brilliant, 
as splendid, as Venus appears to us Earth- 

That star is— the Earth ! 

It may well be that the Martian poets 
chant that beauteous star as if it were some 
propitious divinity, saluting it as a place of 
sojourn more delicious than tongue can 
describe. The Martian astronomers, again, 
favoured by the limpidity of their atmo- 
sphere, may very possibly be far more 
advanced in their study of our globe. They 
may be acquainted with every phase of our 
meteorology, and know all the hidden secrets 
of the white deserts that surround the terres- 
trial Poles. 

And what of life in Mars ! Life ! 
We find it here disseminated everywhere 
in innumerable germs and under innumer- 
able forms. Its sovereignty is universal. 
It imposes its rule on all living things, 
from man down to the infinitely little. 
When we observe this Life perpetuating 
itself even in parasites, to its own detriment, 
when there is not a corner of our globe — 
solid, liquid, or gaseous — that has not its 
appropriate inhabitants, on what grounds do 
we dare exclude this Life from the planet 
Mars ? Why should this earth so analogous 
to our own — why should all these fine 
countries remain deserted ? 

But why should we so obstinately endeavour 
to people all the other planets with human 
beings precisely organized as we are ? Surely 
it is not very difficult to imagine something 
much better ! 

What beings organized like us would do on 
Jupiter, for instance, it is impossible to even 
guess. In order that we may be in a better 
position to judge, let us have a peep at this 
giant of our system, far beyond Mars, as it 
rolls through space at a distance of about 
four hundred and seventy-two million miles 
from the Earth. 

In the course of our voyage to Jupiter we 
may be not a little astonished to collide 
every now and then with minute planetary 
bodies, which form a veritable archipelago of 
worlds between Mars and Jupiter. The 
largest of these celestial fragments measures 
no more than a few hundred miles in extent ; 
many are far smaller. We will pass rapidly 
through this swarm of Lilliputian worlds, 
halting only when we reach Jupiter itself. 

At once we perceive that the actual appear- 
ance of this planet is quite in keeping with 
its magnificently brilliant appearance. The 
splendid and colossal sphere, eleven times 
the diameter of the terrestrial globe, one 

thousand two hundred times as voluminous, 
and three hundred and ten times as heavy, 
revolves on its own axis at the prodigious 
velocity of nine hours fifty minutes at the 
Equator. This velocity, however, is not 
identical at every latitude, but steadily 
decreases as the Poles are approached — a 
proof that the surface of the planet is not yet 
entirely solidified. Here the sun shines for 
less than five hours a day, and the night is 
still further shortened by the dawn and the 

Since Jupiter occupies more than the 
equivalent of twelve terrestrial years in per- 
forming its journey round the sun, the Jovian 
year contains no less than ten thousand four 
hundred and fifty-five days ! Here, indeed, 
is something radically different from the 
conditions prevailing on Mars and the Earth. 

In this gigantic world we can distinguish 
neither continents nor seas ; it is entirely 
enveloped in a dense, impenetrable atmo- 
spherical envelope. What lies beneath these 
banked-up masses of cloud? Is there a 
liquid ocean ? Is there a still burning kernel? 
There was a time when Jupiter blazed as the 
sun does to-day, the centre of its own system 
of seven worlds. It is supposed now to be 
a sun that has lost its former splendour — a 
sun that has not yet quite cooled and is in 
an intermediary stage midway between the 
solar and the terrestrial phases of planetary 

What we first notice on the surface of this 
tumultuous globe are wide bands, like ocean 
currents, which glide along side by side at 
varying rates of speed. 

The most enigmatic formation of this 
immense planet is, however, the celebrated 
red patch, of dimensions more vast than the 
entire Earth, which for nearly a quarter of a 
century now has maintained itself in Jupiter's 
temperate zone. It is difficult to suppose 
that this red patch can be the result of any 
merely atmospherical perturbation. Its per- 
manence seems to forbid any such sup- 
position. Can it be a continent in process of 
formation — a first essay of the agitated 
globular mass in the direction of solidifica- 
tion ? Such an hypothesis, if not the pro- 
bable explanation, is at least justifiable. 
Possibly Life is there already, manifesting 
itself under very rudimentary forms. 

Before leaving this planet we must not fail 
to admire its magnificent train of seven 
satellites. Two of these moons were dis- 
covered quite recently, in 1905, by Mr. 
Perrine, of the Lick Observatory, not by direct 

obser ffl)i? , sWwwfl^ir hotographr 



a fa i kv. like sri* J \n I 

Among the munificent features uf [br cc filial vmilt th-erer me cvme more slrnnse «''tm1 m.irvelloua Saturn's ring*, which, 
cifi any i"brn_- ?,[;irjil night, uiny be seen enveloping tliu- i oliihsal [jLlmci* 

We will now traverse a distance almost 
equal to that which separates Jupiter from 
the Earth to reach Saturn, gravitating in the 
heavens at about eight hundred and eighty- 
eight million miles from the sun. 

Vol uHvi-aa 

Our very first reflection at sight of this 
marvel of our system is to ask ourselves 
whether it is possible that the planet, bound 
by a triple girdle of rings and surrounded by 

ten «tH#J^m>^fthf^ to the same 



family of worlds as the Earth, Mars, Jupiter, 
and the rest, so much does it differ from 

The mere existence of the astonishing 
assemblage of rings seems such an anomaly 
in the eyes of citizens of the Earth that, prior 
to the discovery of this appendix, astronomers 
drew Saturn's ring without seeing it, fully 
persuaded that it consisted of two very 
peculiar satellites. 

In order to admire in its full grandeur this 
magnificent arch, composed of an infinity of 
cosmic corpuscles — veritable dust of worlds 
— we must transport ourselves to the equa- 
torial zone of Saturn, and contemplate the 
heavens on some fine starlit night. 

What a fairy-like scene we here have before 
our eyes ! The planet is illuminated by a 
superb ring-light, in addition to the radiance 
of various moons— for of the satellites there 
are several always above the horizon at the 
same moment. 

During the night the rings surround Saturn 
with a crown of light ; in the daytime their 
shadow spreads over the equatorial regions, 
which are thus, in fact, deprived of the direct 
rays of the sun. 

Assuredly the inhabitants of this extra- 
ordinary world would have far better grounds 
than we have were they to consider them- 
selves to be the masters of the Universe. If 
they observe the other planets of our system, 
they may well suppose that no life can pos- 
sibly exist on globes so different from theirs. 

Seen from such a distance our planet is 
but a minute point of light, only visible once 
every six months, and then for but a few 
brief instants, either in the evening after sun- 
set, or shortly before dawn. Go but a very 
little farther through space, and the Earth 
has become absolutely indistinguishable ! 

Let us now continue our celestial travels. 
In the far distance we perceive the dim out- 
line of still another world. 

The new world is Uranus, about one 
thousand 4 seven hundred and eighty- six 
million miles distant from the sun. But 
we have no time to loiter here. 

In like manner we shall fly, without halt- 
ing, past Neptune, which, more than two 
thousand five hundred million miles away, 
is on the very frontier line of the solar 
system as we at present understand it. 

We will now at last boldly enter upon the 
regions of the Infinite ! Ghastly, dis- 
hevelled, slow-moving, there glides before 
our eyes a comet aimlessly wandering through 
the night that has neither beginning nor 
end. It is the bearer of tidings to the worlds 

of the Solar Republic from the uttermost 
immensity of the skies ! A little farther on 
we encounter a second comet, still more 
ghastly than the first, still smaller. They 
alone break the awful solitude of the great, 
silent space separating us from the nearest star. 

Possibly we may be able to discover also, 
had we leisure to make the search, debris of 
ruined stars the very names of which have 
long been ruled out of Life's great ledger, 
the only remaining vestiges of defunct worlds 
ever rolling on through the eternal night. In 
this desert, however, we will tarry no longer 
than is absolutely necessary. In the far 
distance a new sun illumining new skies 
attracts our attention. It is. the star Alpha, 
one of the constellation known to us as the 
Centaur. Let us hasten to reach it. 

This star, the nearest of any, blazes and 
flames at a distance from the Earth two 
hundred and seventy-five thousand times as 
great as that separating the Earth from its 
own Sun. In other words, the distance 
between Alpha and the Earth is twenty-five 
billion miles. 

As we approach nearer to this system we 
perceive that it differs vastly from ours. 
Instead of its possessing a single sun 
analogous to that which lights us, it has two 
twin suns, one gravitating round the other at 
a distance of one thousand eight hundred 
and seventy-five million miles, each complete 
revolution occupying eighty - four years. 
There is no doubt that round each of these 
flaming torches there circle tributary planets, 
which derive from the double rays the source 
of their fertility and their life. These planets 
are illumined by two different suns, which 
are at one epoch united in the same sky, at 
others separated and alternative. 

What extraordinary alternations of seasons 
must result from this curious combination of 
suns ! What variations of climate ! How 
strange must be Nature's manifestations in 
these distant worlds, plunged in a double 
solar radiance ! 

Nor is this system the only specimen of 
its kind amid the multitude of stars that 
compose our universe. And not only are 
there double suns, in couples, bound by the 
same destiny, cradled by the same attractive 
force ; there are also triple arid even quadruple 
suns, many of which are coloured in vivid 

Let us fix our attention for a moment now 
on the star Gamma, in the constellation of 
Andromeda. Gamma is composed of an 
orange tinted star united to one of emerald- 
green, ytfjpie, 1 ^pjttjepy ^i,Pf f p| jsmall dark - blue 




So enormous Is tbe distance of certain stars that rays of HgBl occupy seveml years, even several ceiUuties 1 in making the 

journey to Earth. If, then, the inhabitants of ^ome of these stars have perfected methods for seeing us, ihey see us to-day as 

we *ere several centuries ago, and arc now observing 3t the surface of the Karlh sjoitic episode from ancient history, such 

as l he chariot-races of Ancient Rome so strikingly shown in the illustration above, 

companion. What a peculiar play of light such 
an association of differently coloured suns 
must give birth to ! What imagination could 
guess at the extraordinary forms of existence 

which may succeed one another on planets 
bathed in these diversely coloured rays ? 
The celestial motion;? are eminently calcu- 



To convey mine conception of the enormous in | ^sidereal spares we imtM employ the notion of i im«, The time occupied by Castor and 
colossal dial, the whole paye of modern earthly hi&iory is turned I In fr'rano, fur t:\:ijrij-ile> the same eye m-chiM ^v.-w the ttruEjcIt* of the 

N a pultun's rise and faU, the G+ L rman 

terrestrial events which appear so important 
to our ephemeral eyes. On some bright star- 
lit night contemplate for an instant the 
different constellations of the Zodiac — the 
Pleiades, which resemble an archipelago 

set in the midst of the Infinite ; the red 
star of the Bui), Aldeharan, the Twins, 
Castor and Pollux. Then take a telescope 
and focus it on Castor. You will he admir- 

mmvi- w«r surs gIitter - 




Pollux, fbT msianec, in gratit^ihg once round one another is 147 lerresttia! yi % ars. While the ^rc:ii hand of Time U g'njig once round this 
League, all the long iena of nrants in the reign* uf ]a>iiS-s XI V + acrl hit su^ct-isor, ihc capture of the Bastille, the execution of Louis XVI.j 
in virion, And— the Exhibition of 1903! 

ing like diamonds, I hey ore, in fact, two relatively to each other in the same posi- 

suns gravitating round one another, each tion they occupied in 1559- The interval 

revolution occupying three hundred and between the two dates formed the complete 

forty-seven years. sidereal year of ihf > sjpfcftif f o m 

Two years ago thefee two stars ! (wra21' Should YMNflW^ltfec^ 



the constellation of Perseus, we shall find a 
most curious star, named Algol. Here we 
have a system diametrically opposite to that 
of Castor. A dark star is revolving with 
prodigious velocity, in two days, twenty hours, 
forty-eight minutes, and two seconds, round 
a most effulgent star, with the result that, 
when viewed from the Earth, the latter under- 
goes notable variations in brilliancy, its 
satellite, which circulates in the precise plane 
of our visual rays, eclipsing it partially every 
two days. 

Let us fly still farther into the Infinite, 
where even greater marvels await us. We 
speed past many a sunlit shore, through many 
a night-enwrapped desert, in our passage from 
sun to sun, from system to system. Ever 
on the horizon new beacons spring into view, 
beckoning us on farther and farther. 

There is Sirius, the grandest star of our 
sky, floating in space at a distance from the 
Earth of fifty-seven thousand five hundred 
billion miles. Viewed from such a distance, 
the mighty Sun which illumines the Earth and 
gives us life would be reduced to the size of a 
minute star, barely visible to the naked eye ! 

Give a brief glance as we pass at some 
of those distant suns, the light of which 
occupies ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred years — 
in certain cases even thousands and millions 
of years— to reach us. 

There are rays of light arriving on the 
Earth to-day which have been journeying 
since the epoch when Europe was still one 
immense forest, the haunt of wild beasts 
and impenetrable by man, who himself had 
scarcely yet risen above the level of the 
brute. Other rays had already set out on 
their journey in the days when Hesiod, 
Homer's contemporary, maintained that the 
distance between Heaven and Hell had 
been measured by Vulcan's anvil, which, he 
declared, had taken nine days and nine nights 
to fall from Heaven to the Earth, and an 
equal number of days and nights to fall from 
the Earth to the abode of the damned. 

Never, in fact, do we really see the stars as 
they actually are at the moment we are look- 
ing at them. Instead, we see them as they 
were at the moment when they emitted the 
rays of light which are reaching us now. The 
histories of all the worlds are thus eternally 
travelling through Space ! 

Every star, let me add, is a sun shining 
with its own light, and thousands, and in 
some cases millions, of times more lumin- 
ous than our globe. Yet, so numerous, 
so closely packed are the stars on celestial 
maps, as well as the photographs of the 

heavens, that to our eyes they appear truly 
like star-dust. 

In the uttermost depths of space we dis- 
cover great compact masses of stars and 
nebulae which would transport us still farther 
into still other immensities. 

Now we have traversed entirely the sidereal 
Universe, are we at the end of our journey? 

Whatever be the exact number of the stars, 
this number is not infinite, as some teachers 
would have us believe. A number cannot be 
infinite, or it would cease to be a number. 
Now, in thought, we can always add one 
star to all those which exist. But to the 
infinite it is not possible to add anything. 
Therefore the number of stars is limited. 

What is infinite, however, is Space. 

Space, indeed, cannot be otherwise than 
infinite. Let us fly in imagination to such 
a distance from the Earth that light can 
only bridge it, in spite of its speed of one 
hundred and eighty-seven thousand five 
hundred miles a second, in several million 
years. Now let us imagine a distance twice 
as great, or four times, or ten times, or a 
hundred times as great. Whatever be the 
point at which we decide to stop, let us 
picture to ourselves that a barrier of some 
kind is set there. Does not our thought 
immediately leap over the imaginary fence? 
The fact of the matter is that we are quite 
incapable of conceiving space as anything 
but limitless. 

In the midst of this infinite space the 
sidereal Universe forms but one organized 
system, of which the stars are the atoms. The 
number of still brilliant stars of this system 
exceeds several hundred millions ; the number 
of dead stars must be yet more considerable. 

There is nothing, however, to prove to 
us that this Universe exists alone in the 
Infinite. Another Universe, comprising 
an equal number of stars, may exist at a 
.million times the parallax of the limit of our 
Universe, considered here as the one- 
thousandth second of the Arc. There may 
be a third Universe at some other distance, 
and yet a fourth at another, and a hundred, 
and even a thousand, millions of Universes, 
either similar or not to ours and to each 
other. Moreover, the Universes may be 
separated from one another by absolutely 
empty spaces in which there is no ether, and 
may thus be quite invisible to each other. 

Our humanity and its entire history 
resembles but a minute ant-heap, and our 
most immense astronomic journeyings can 
never carry us beyond the mere threshold of 



GOOD actor without a good 
play," said Leonard Kiddle- 
wick, " is like — now what is 
he like ? He ts like an 
astronomer without a tele- 
scope, a ship without a com- 
pass, a pneumatic tyre without a pump, a -" 

" A dramatic author without a theatre," 
suggested Archie Ponlbld, with disconcerting 
promptitude. He knew perfectly well that 
those impromptus delivered so airily and so 
aptly by Mr. Kiddle wick had been carefully 
prepared for the occasion. They might even 
have been used by him in the course of the 
dialogue incidental to the first or conversa 
tional act of the very play on which the chat 
in the smoking room of the Log- Rollers 
Cluh had turned. ** A dramatic author with- 
out a theatre ; that's the best of all your 
similes, isn't it?" 

" I was going to suggest a balloon without 
gas 3 " said a pale youth with a tie red 
enough to unnerve an adult negro. His 
name was Joseeline Joyce, the uttering of 
which was enough to take the spirit out of 
any stranger inadvertently introduced to him. 

11 That's not so bad as some of your best, 
J. ]." said Mr. Penfold, with the air of an 
epicure at a sale of vintage clarets. " It's 
not so bad considering that Kiddle's comedy 
Is under discussion*" 

11 Pardon me," said Kiddlewick, " I 
wasn't anxious to discuss my play. All that 

T=. FRWKF0RX T100RE . 

I said was that it would be ridiculous to 
assume that actors are so blind to their 
own interests as to refuse to spend an hour 
on the chance— I only say the chance, mind 
— of finding a play waiting for them — a 
possible gold-mine waiting for them. Why, 
it stands to reason - 1 ' 

"Oh, sainted Aunt Tabitha ! The fellow 
is beginning to talk of reason in the same 
breath as he talks of the stage!" cried 
Penfold. "Are we not going to have some 
snooker to day ? Who is on for snooker? " 

Three or four of the men who were smoking 
in lounge chairs in an irregular crescent in 
front of tiie fire in the smoking-room of the 
Log- Rollers Club responded to Penfold's 
call and went off with him to the billiard- 
room for the usual afternoon's snooker pool* 
so that Leonard Kiddlewick was left alone. 

There are a good many literary men in the 
Log- Rollers; but very few writers of plays, 
and still fewer whose plays have been pro- 
duced ; so when, some months before, 
Kiddlewick, who was a very confiding mem- 
ber, mentioned to his brethren that he had 
made up his mind to write a play, he became 
the recipient from several of his best friends of 
a good deal of advice. It was of the deterrent 
tone of that adopted by the people in the 
Alpine region through which there passed 
when the shades of night were falling fast 
the youth who bore mid snow and ice the 
banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! 
The consensus of opinion among the Log- 
R oilers was overwhelming in the direction 
of "Don't" 

"A pMfc'Slfl 3 'easily written," said the 



dramatic critic. " All the hard work begins 
after it is written." 

Kiddlewick, being completely ignorant on 
this point, fancied that he knew better than 
to believe such a statement. 

He sent his comedy, in the first instance, 
to a great actor who had the reputation for 
considering every play submitted to him and 
of returning promptly all that he could not 
use. It appeared to Leonard Kiddlewick 
that this gentleman's promptness had never 
had full justice done to it. He got back his 
typed copy within twenty-four hours, "with a 
note from the great actor- manager's acting- 
manager to the effect that the piece, though 
undoubtedly interesting, was scarcely suitable 
to the requirements of the theatre named at 
the top of the note-paper. 

But if this particular actor-manager was 
over-prompt for the taste of the author, the 
next to whom he sent the play could certainly 
not be said to err in the same direction. He 
kept the play for two months, and, when 
Leonard wrote to him for the third time 
respecting it, sent an apologetic note (type- 
written) stating that he was greatly interested 
in the piece, and hoped to be able to come 
to a decision respecting its suitability for 
production in the course of a few days. 

This was good news, and for several 
days the author felt cheerful ; but when the 
days became weeks and no further communi- 
cation came to him from the theatre he began 
to feel anxious. At the end of a month he 
ventured to write to the actor-manager 
respecting it, and by the next post he got 
a letter from the actor-manager's assistant- 
acting-manager regretting that the actor- 
manager had no recollection whatever of 
receiving any play from Mr. Kiddlewick, and 
suggesting the probability of his having made 
a mistake as to the theatre to which it had 
been sent. 

This was not exactly cheering to the author, 
and on receiving the letter he at once went 
to the theatre, feeling that a personal inter- 
view with the head of the establishment was 
necessary to restore the status quo ante at the 
very least. 

He was fortunate enough to find the 
acting-manager in the vestibule. 

He mentioned his name to that official, 
but Leonard could see in a moment that this 
conveyed nothing to him. It was clear that 
the disappearance, or the non-appearance, of 
the play was not the burning topic at the 
theatre that day. The acting-manager said 
that he had no recollection of having received 
any piece of the name of Mr. Kiddlewick's, 

but he would have exhaustive inquiries made 
and let Mr. Kiddlewick know the result 
without delay. 

He was not in the best of humour when 
he reached the club and received his letters 
from the hall porter, among them being a 
large square envelope containing the copy of 
the play which he had sent to the theatre, 
and about the disappearance of which there 
was all the mystery ! 

Within the cover there was a note from 
the acting-manager to the effect that the 
actor- manager had been greatly interested in 
the play, but regretted that he did not con- 
sider it suitable to his requirements. 

It may be mentioned that the next morn- 
ing the author received a letter from the 
acting- manager stating that he had caused 
every inquiry to be made, but neither the 
actor-manager nor anyone else at the theatre 
had ever seen Mr. Kiddlewick's play, so that 
he felt sure it was impossible that it could 
ever have reached the theatre. 

On the second morning after the recovery 
of the play he also received a letter from the 
assistant-acting-manager informing him that 
the actor-manager was greatly interested to 
hear that he, Mr. Kiddlewick, had written a 
play, and if he would kindly send it on to 
the theatre he would be very pleased to 
read it. 

On the evening of the same day he received 
the MS. of a one-act play to which no name 
was attached, and enclosed was a letter from 
the acting-manager, stating that the actor- 
manager had been greatly interested in read- 
ing his play, and regretted that he was 
compelled to return it herewith as it was not 
quite suitable to the requirements of the 

Mr. Kiddlewick was about to make his 
offer to one of the producers of that form of 
entertainment known as musical comedy, in 
view of the imminent collapse of his latest 
adventure, when he came upon his friend the 
dramatic critic, who said to him : — 

" By the way, Kiddlewick, weren't you 
going to write a play, or something in that 

" I wrote a play six months ago— at least, 
I hope it is a play, though it may only be, as 
you suggest, something in that line," replied 
Kiddlewick. " At any rate, I hope it i? 
more like a play than some of the stuff which 
is being played just now." 

" You haven't got it taken by anyone yet, 
of course ? " 

" Well, never exactly taken — never formally 

acce P te fl-N^terrV OF MICHIGAN 



" Oh, I know. You mean that the 'script 
has always been found after half-a-dozen 
letters to the management — found and 
returned to you. Never mind. Is there a 
good- woman's part in the thing? " 

" She isn't quite what people would call a 
good woman, but " 

"You know what I mean — an effective 
part to be played by a female, Is that plain 
enough for you ? Is it a woman's play ? " 

" It depends upon the woman. I believe 
that a good actress could carry off the whole 
thing on her shoulders. There's one scene 
in the second act — w T ould you care to 
read it?" 

" I ? Read it ? What do you take me 
for ? I have enough of plays sufficiently 
cooked without hankering after one that is 
raw. I'll give you a letter to Edith Arnold ; 
she has been bothering me for the past 
two months to get her something new and 
original, with a part that she can score off — 
something with five changes of dress in it — 
six, if possible. You could easily arrange to 
send her off the stage now and again to 
change her frock or put on a new coat, I 
suppose ? " 

" I'm not quite sure. I can't say on the 
spur of the moment ; but — oh, I don't see 
that there should be much difficulty in pro- 
viding her with chances for an unlimited 
supply of dresses — she wouldn't expect me 
to provide the dresses, you know. But I 
should tell you before going any farther that 
I've made up my mind not to submit my play 
to anyone. I'll read it to all comers, but 
it will not leave my possession." 

The critic smiled. 

" It's as well to be on the safe side," he 
said. " Well, I'll give you a letter to the 
woman — that's all that I can do; you will 
have to do the rest, and the rest means a 
good deal, my friend Kiddle wick — a little 
lying, a little supper or two, plenty of cheek, 
and unlimited flattery. If you are discreet 
in the exercise of these natural gifts of 
yours you may prevail upon her to let you 
read an act to her." 

11 It's very good of you, I'm sure," said 
Kiddlewick. " I can't ask you to do more 
for me than to give me the introduction to 
Miss Arnold." 

The visit which Mr. Leonard Kiddlewick 
paid to Miss Edith Arnold's flat to present 
the letter with which his friend provided him 
formed one of the most eventful incidents in 
his life. So far as his literary career is con- 
cerned it might appropriately be termed 
epoch-making ; for it marked his return to a 

Vol. xxxvl— 39. 

branch of literary work by which he was able 
to make a very decent living, and his aban- 
donment of an ambition to occupy a position 
which he was quite unqualified to fill. 

Being mindful of the importance attached 
to what the Frenchman called " l'audace, 
l'audace, toujours l'audace " — translated col- 
loquially by his friend whose letter he had 
in his pocket, " unlimited cheek " — Leonard 
Kiddlewick put his play into his overcoat 
pocket when he set out the next morning for 
the actress's flat, which was one of a lately 
erected block in Oxford Street. After think- 
ing over the matter he had come to the 
conclusion that he should not lose the 
opportunity of being face to face with Miss 
Arnold ; he should endeavour to press upon 
her to let him read at least the great act of 
his play in her presence. He had lost 
all confidence in the appreciation of their 
business responsibilities by " the profession," 
and so he was pretty certain that, if Miss 
Arnold were persuaded to make an appoint- 
ment with him for the reading of his play, 
she would write to him, or most likely 
telegraph, to assure him that an unlooked-for 
occurrence would prevent her from keeping 
her engagement, and that would mean the 
end of his chances with Miss Arnold. 

"I shall have begun to read it to her 
before she has invented an excuse for putting 
me off," he said to his reflection in the 
uncracked portion of the mirror at his 
lodgings, as he put his imitation pearl pin in 
his tie before setting out on his enterprise. 
" By the Lord Harry, I'll not leave her until 
she has heard the whole of the act ! I'll do 
myself justice, even though she may think 
me the cheekiest bounder that ever lived. 
One may be a cheeky bounder and yet a 
good dramatic author ; in fact " 

He continued his train of thought while 
getting into a hansom and giving the address 
of Bargrove Mansions to the driver. He 
thought it a good stroke to travel by hansom 
upon this occasion. It was almost certain 
that the actress's flat faced the street, and it 
was almost certain that she would be sitting 
at a window watching the flowing stream of 
people beneath, and thinking that if they 
only knew they were passing the flat of 
Edith Arnold, the great actress, they would 
quickly look up. 

He looked up when the hansom pulled in 
at the courtyard entrance to the mansions, 
but as fully forty windows faced* Oxford 
Street, and he did not know which of them 
belonged to Miss Arnold, he had, of course, 
no chancW )r lc£Fl [''seeing whether or not she 




received in a reasonable spirit the impression 
which he meant to convey to her by arriving 
in a hansom. He could only hope for the 

He found from the address -board that 
Miss Edith Arnold's flat was on the first 
floor, but still he thought it well to make 
even this trifling ascent in the lift ; he did 
not wish to come breathless into the presence 
of the lady. In spite of his usually large 
stock of self-possession he felt a sudden 
qualm of nervousness when he had rung the 
bell of Miss Arnold's door ; but it was really 
this very nervousness which enabled him to 
tell the maid who opened the door that he 
had an appointment with Miss Arnold — the 
maid had said that Miss Arnold was out. It 
was not until he had been shown into a very 
modernly furnished sitting-room — he saw 
that its two windows gave upon Oxford 
Street — that it occurred to him that he had 
in his momentary nervousness made a false 
statement to the maid. He had really no 
appointment with Miss Arnold. What was 
in his mind was the fact that he had some 
business with Miss Arnold. 

However, there he was, actually in her 
sitting-room, awaiting her return, and the 
reflection that his position represented an 
advance far beyond any that he had achieved 
in the course of his previous attempts to 
bring his play under the notice of anyone 
connected with the stage rather more than 
neutralized whatever compunction he may 
have had reason to feel for his inaccu- 
racy of statement. He had in his hand the 
letter of introduction given to him by the 
dramatic critic, and he had in his pocket 
the play which he meant to read to Miss 
Arnold. In after years Miss Arnold would 
be inclined to be lenient to his act of ter- 
giversation which gave her the chance of her 
life, and him — well, he had heard that ten 
per cent, on the gross receipts represented 
the lowest terms on which any dramatist of 
the day would do business. 

He began to be pretty well satisfied with 
himself, when the maid re-entered the room 
with a bundle of sticks and the back numbers 
of several mutilated Referees, and forthwith 
flung herself into the grate and began to 
build up the materials for a fire in the least 
scientific manner that he had ever seen. The 
Referee is not an inflammable organ at any 
time, and it was unusually shy in meeting the 
advances of the wood with the matches. 
She must have used up half a box before a 
flame appeared, and then it was only the 
paper that caught fire. It seemed tol the 

visitor that in her hurry the maid had caught 
up a bundle of asbestos in mistake for fire- 
lighters — asbestos dipped in a solution of 
nitroglycerine — for a rapid series of short 
staccato explosions sent little spirts into the 
room, and when the maid pulled herself up 
to her feet by the help of the mantelpiece, 
on whose white woodwork she left four black 
finger-prints, which would have made her 
identification certain under the Bertillon 
system, a whole cloud of smoke clung to her. 
But she was an optimist. She flung half a 
scuttleful of coals on the flaming paper and 
the spluttering sticks, and joyously left the 

For some minutes the visitor was left 
hoping that the incipient fire had been 
effectively put out ; but the old Referees died 
hard, and by some curious freak of chance 
the spluttering sticks gave evidence of a 
volcanic activity, and the result was that the 
coals heated and the smoke, which before had 
been sporadic, now rolled in one thick volume 
into the room. 

The waiting dramatist felt that it was his 
duty to ring the bell to apprise the maid of 
the result of her work, but though not want- 
ing in courage — as has been suggested — still, 
this quality with him was strictly of a pro- 
fessional type ; he could face anything — even 
a popular actress — in his endeavour to 
become a dramatist ; but it was quite another 
matter ringing a bell in the actress's parlour 
to summon the actress's maid. He thought 
that it might be possible for him to turn the 
rolling clouds of smoke in the way they 
should go without the aid of the servant ; 
so he went to the grate and tried to feel 
with the poker if the little trap-door leading 
to the chimney, technically known as the 
" register/' was open. 

He achieved his aim most disastrously ; 
he found that he was able to thrust the 
poker up to the hilt into the space above, 
but in doing so the same implement set free 
about a sackful of soot, which poured down 
and was borne into the room with the smoke 
from below, but there was still a sufficient 
quantity left behind effectually to dam the 

So did Mr. Kiddlewick. 

He could stand the strain no longer. He 
gasped and groped through the clouds for the 
electric bell, the result being a whole series 
of Bertillon impressions on the white wall, 
beginning in well-defined bunches of four 
near the fireplace, and then gradually becom- 
ing blurred, and suggesting the track of the 
pterodactyl through the marble halls of the 






Royal Geological Society. At last, however, 
he found the missing button, and pressed it 
twice to indicate urgency. 

He waited and gasped, and then rang 
three times. 

There was no response. It was impossible 
that there could be any, this being the hour 
which Miss Arnold's maid had reserved for 
the forging of another link in the chain of her 
flirtation with the lift man. 

And still the smoke* more highly carbonized 
than ever, rolled into the room, and Leonard 
Kiddlewick's gasping broadened into a sneeze, 
with an answering echo from the open piano 
which stood in the farthest angle of the room- 
He was about to hasten to throw open the 
door f when he heard a sound that suggested 
that he was not alone in the apartment. He 
waited. It came again. Someone was asleep 
— and snoring — behind the screen which 
blocked out the greater part of a small 
sofa. It came again and again. 

To do him justice, not once did the un- 
chivalrous thought come to him that Edith 
Arnold was asleep on the sofa behind the 
screen. He had imagination. The thought 

that came to him was that a housebreaker 
had effected an entry into the flat, and having 
been foiled in his attempt to get away with 
her well known and almost priceless jewels— 
they had already been stolen three times in 
slack seasons, in an attempt to attract people 
to her theatre— the ruffian had come upon a 
decanter and had drunk himself into uncon- 
sciousness. Several cases of a like nature 
had recently been recorded, and — yes, it 
was undoubtedly the stertorous snore of the 
habitual housebreaker. 

The dramatist, with smarting eyes, but 
great presence of mind, crossed the room 
once more to the fireplace, but just as he 
was in the act of picking up the poker there 
came from behind the screen the most 
horrible snore he had ever heard — the snore 
of a burglar just awaking from a dreadful 
dream — the snore that breaks down with a 
crash the barrier between the region of the 
nightmare and the simple life. In the start 
that he gave he kicked the fender, and down 
clanged the paker and the tongs and the 
shovel on to the tilfd hearth. 

The next instant there was a snarl and a 




growl, in the same tone of voice as the snore, 
followed by the fall of some soft but heavy 
body from the sofa to the floor, and Mr, 
Kiddle wick found himself facing, not a 
burglar, but a bulldog. At that moment 
there came to hi in a dim recollection of 

million diameters (measuring across the 
ellipse made by her legs). With the smoke 
swirling around her she looked like a demon. 
That was why he wetted his lips and made 
the sound as of kissing — the sound that one 
makes when coaxing a canary. 

having been face to face with this animal 
before. It all came back to him in a flash. 
The creature was Miss Edith Arnold's prize 
animal La Tosca, the daughter of the cham- 
pion bulldog of the world and the mother of 
two champions and another that was kept 
out of the championship only on account of a 
single black hair. He had seen the por trait 
of l^a Tosca in many papers, but now that 
he was facing the original he — well, he had 
no mind to prolong the luxury. 

There she stood between him and the 
door, sneering at him. Her eyes were far 
too prominent to be thought beautiful by 
the uninitiated, and her features generally 
were too irregular to be pleasing, while the 
droop of her jow r I and the way she had of 
drawing up about eight inches of black skin 
over her tusks could never suggest that she 
was endeavouring to ingratiate herself upon 
a stranger. He saw in a moment that it 
would be wise to make friends with the 
horrible bow^ged thing that stood there, 
like a loathsome microbe magnified by a 

Hut clearly the thing before him was no 
canary, and resented being treated as one* 
She displayed her gums to an extent he had 
believed impossible for any animal to reach 
without overdoing it, and her snarl was like 
the sound that is made by the round pebbles 
of a beach in the relapse of a wave ; all the 
time she had her protuberant eyes focused 
upon his face, and she was approaching him 
cautiously and with a hideous leering fasti- 
diousness, such as one may see upon a 
Gillray caricature of a fat gourmand sitting 
down to a smoking joint. 

The visitor was never for a moment in 
doubt as to the intentions of the creature. 
Whatever her faults may have been she was 
never otherwise than frankness itself, and it 
was because he saw 7 it all so clearly that he 
retreated before her 3 still making (paradoxi- 
cally) the friendliest advances to her with his 
lips. His 'iftSAgilldfe^iSbvement, however, 




prevented his seeing where he was going, 
and, backing into a small table supporting a 
pot of maidenhair fern and three photo- 
graphs in silver frames of Miss Edith Arnold 
in costume, he overturned the lot with the 
crash as of a falling house — a greenhouse by 
preference. He made a wild grab for the 
fabric with one hand, and at that second 
the bulldog made her spring. She missed 
his arm, but her tusks grazed his flesh and 
she fell back with a good mouthful of cloth 
sleeves — Melton cloth overcoat sleeve and 
tweed morning coat sleeve, both lined. 

He made a rush for the screen. It was a 
four -fold screen, and, 
although he had only 
had a glance at it, 
his ingenuity had sug- 
gested to him a plan 
to avert by its aid the 
complete annihilation 
that threatened him, 
if he failed to tempor- 
ize with the animal 
until help arrived from 
without. He flung 
himself into the folds 
of the screen and 
wrapped them around 
him, so that they en- 
closed him in a sort of 
shaky cupboard, He 
held the two ends 
together — keeping his 
hands as high up 
as possible — and just 
managed to close them 
before the animal 
rushed up. 

When she found the 
folding doors slammed 
in her face, so to 
speak, and realized that 
she was shut out, her 
rage was terrific. She 
hurled herself at the 
entrance to this im- 
provised cupboard and 
tried to reach his 
fingers, but they were 
too high up for her. 
Then she did her 
best to worm her way 
between the two ends 
that he had brought 
together ; but he man- 
aged to hold them 
close with his feet as 
well as his hands, and 

so foiled her. For a couple of minutes she 
fought fiercely for an opening in the 
legitimate way, and then a new plan occurred 
to her — and him* She forsook her unsuc- 
cessful tactics and forthwith began to gnaw 
at the light framework of the screen. He 
saw in a moment that she could tear it off in 
strips, and he determined to try his plan of 
escape. The screen was far from the door, 
but it was only a few yards from one of the 
windows. Giving a sudden twist, he wofked 
the opening round to the window, and then 
overturned the screen on the dog, at the same 
time making a spring for a chair at the 





window with one hand outstretched 
for the hasp of the casement. 

He succeeded in reaching the 
chair, but unfortunately he missed 
the hasp of the window and his arm 
went through the pane and the glass 
crashed into the street below; almost 
before he heard the sounds however, 
he had sprung upon the sill, flung 
open the window, and got out upon 
the ledge. It was narrow enough, 
but still sufficient for him to stand 



upon, with care. He took great care; 
but to his horror he saw all Oxford Street 
rushing to him from both sides of the 
mansions. Everyone seemed rushing to 
him, and there was the cry of M Fire ! Fire ! 
Fire !" from a thousand throats. Eveiyone 
was looking up to his window, and then, 
giving a furtive glance behind h!m s he per- 
ceived that volumes of smoke were issuing 
from the open casement. He realized the 
appalling truth ; the crash of the glass on the 
pavement had first called the attention of 
the Oxford Street crowd to the fact that some- 
thing unusual was happening, and then the 
falling of the screen and the struggles of the 

huge animal among its folds had fanned all 
the smoke already in the room, with a plen- 
tiful auxiliary from the fireplace, through the 
gap in the glass, so that even before he had 
got out upon the ledge the alarm had been 

Of course, he yelled out "No fire! Nc 
fire ! " His protestations had, however, no 
chance of being heard above the shouts of 
the crowd. He could hear the people 
shouting encouragingly to him, telling him 
to hold on for a few minutes, when the fire 
escape would be sure to rescue him ; and an 
ingenious person yelled for one of the buses 
to drive on to the pavement so as to give 




the " poor young feller " a chance of jumping 
for its roof. The whole scene was like 
a dreadful dream to Leonard Kiddlewick. 
He stood there as helpless as a man in a 
nightmare, and saw the surging crowds parted 
by the police as the fire escape was wheeled 
up, and amid ringing cheers a gallant fellow 
in a leather helmet, and with an axe and 
things in his belt, mounted the machine, 
caught him in his stalwart arms, and bore 
him safely to the pavement 

He staggered into a public-house two doors 
away — no one seemed to think anything more 
about him — even the staff of the public- 
house were too busy looking after the fire to 
have a moment to spare to him. 

" Here they come ! " cried a barman, 
standing on a bench near the window. " Here 
they come — two steamers and a hose car." 

Leonard Kiddlewick felt extremely ill. He 
heard the jangle of the fire-engine bells and 
the imperative orders of the police, who had 
already set about the business of diverting 
the traffic of Oxford Street into side streets. 
They were forming a cordon in front of the 

And he had done it all ! 

He did not know if there was any fixed 
scale for apportioning the liability incidental 
to such an occurrence as was convulsing \ the 
western end of Oxford Street; there was 
possibly a recognised rate on which the 
charges were defrayed ; but, however this 
might be, he could not doubt that he would 
be held accountable for the larger portion of 
the cost. 

Yes, provided that the charge of giving a 
false alarm of fire was brought home to him ; 
but in the meantime 

The whole staff of the public-house were 
standing on chairs and benches, holding on 
by each others shoulders, while they strained 
their eyes to see over the frosted-glass design 
of vineyard trophies. He only was left on 
the floor. He felt that the best thing he 
could do was to abandon a position of such 
chilling isolation. Quite unostentatiously he 
left the public -house by the side exit. In 
the narrow side street where he found him- 
self almost every man was bareheaded — a 
good many were in their shirt-sleeves, having 
left their work to look after the fire. Thus 
it was that the fact of his being hatless and 
dishevelled did not attract attention. He 
was hurrying southward, when he saw on 
the opposite side of the street a shop, in the 
window of which were displayed a second- 
hand motorist's overall and a leather 
cap. He secured this disguise for four 

Digitized by L-i 

shillings, assumed it before leaving the 
premises, thus concealing his defective 
sleeve — to be more exact, sleeves — and so 
he walked on to Charing Cross and took a 
bus to his lodgings. With the motorist's 
garb he seemed to become endowed with 
something of the promptness of action of 
the ideal motorist. The original wearer, 
if he had been still alive, might actually have 
taken a leaf out of his book, for the moment 
he entered his room he put on a tweed suit 
and knickerbockers, packed a Gladstone bag, 
and went from the nearest underground station 
to Victoria. Thence he booked to East- 
bourne, and the moment he arrived at that 
charming seaside resort he wrote a note to his 
friend the dramatic critic, telling him that on 
second thoughts he had come to the con- 
clusion that there was no part in his play 
that was worthy of the position which Miss 
Edith Arnold had attained, and so he would 
not have to avail himself of his letter of 
introduction to that lady. He was staying 
with some friends at Eastbourne, he added, 
and found it quite a delightful place — only 
an hour and a half from Victoria by the 
fast trains, and an excellent band playing 
daily in a pavilion by the sea. He added 
that it was strange that more people did not 
avail themselves of having a day in the pure 
air bloWn up the Channel with the Atlantic 
brine in every breath. 

He posted this letter, and in the evening 
papers which arrived an hour later he read 
a singularly circumstantial account of a false 
alarm of fire which had disorganized the traffic 
in Oxford Street for fifty minutes that morning. 

He returned to London at the end of the 
week, and he heard nothing more about the 
alarm of fire ; but he made up his mind that 
* in future he would devote himself to pure 
literature and make no further attempt to get 
the ear of an actor — or actress — with a view 
to the production of his comedy. 

" What about that play of yours, Kiddie ? " 
inquired his friend Penfold one day in the 
early spring. " Do you never mean to carry 
out your threat of going to some manager to 
read it to him ? " 

11 If any manager wants to hear it read, he 
must come to me," said Kiddlewick, firmly. 

"Talking of stage things, have you seen 
the latest postcard of Edith Arnold with her 
bulldog?" said Josceline Joyce. " It's called 
4 Beauty and the Beast.' I got one from the 
country this morning. Here it is. Care to 
see it ? " 

" No," said Kiddlewick, vehemently, " I do 
not care to see itA r - ^ 

-•1 1 >. 1 1 1 1 a 1 



HEN came my first real ex- 
perience of ocean travelling, 
and It was interesting and 
instructive to contrast the 
comfort and luxury with which 
this somewhat monotonous 
and stormy transit was accomplished in 
December by means of that splendidly- 
equipped steamer, I he Campania^ compared 
with the experiences of other people a few 
years earlier. The genius of Charles Dickens 
will be remembered in his very vivid record 
of the impressions in- 
spired by his first voyage 
across the Atlantic as 
described in his "Ameri- 
can Notes," and his 
experiences had some- 
what frightened me. 

On my arrival in New 
York, almost before I 
landed, I was bombarded 
by an army of irrepres- 
sible and imaginative 
interviewers, and when I 
arrived at my hotel a 
score or more of them 
stood in a row shooting 
me mercilessly with 
questions, while I, an 
unwilling target, took 
refuge behind the table. 
How did i like the 
country which had only 
harboured mc five 
minutes before, and what were my impres- 
sions of that vast body of land and people ? 
Shortly, however, I was genuinely con- 
vinced of the extraordinary hospitality and 
kindness of the inhabitants of this new coun- 

MR. K- J> I'HFU'h, 

Frvm 9 Photo, h# Eliivtt *f Frp. 

try, which I was visiting for the first time. 
Although personally an entire stranger to 
the United States, and unknown to anyone, 
so far as I was aware, I found on the mantel- 
piece of my sitting-room invitations galore 
and notifications of election as honorary 
member of about twelve different clubs in 
New York. I cannot but reflect here upon 
the striking contrast in the treatment 
shown to strangers in America with that 
which generally exists in our own country 
and on the Continent. 

Not content with wel- 
coming me to their most 
exclusive clubs, the 
citizens went out of their 
way to show me marked 
consideration, and T not 
satisfied by the hospi- 
tality they showered upon 
me while in their own 
city, they took active steps 
to see that I was equally 
well-provided for in cities 
subsequently visited. 

About a month prior 
to my departure from 
England, with that 
customary though tfulness 
and generosity which 
always characterized 
Irving, who was then in 
America and knew I 
was a stranger in a 
strange land, he invited 
me to dine at Delmonico^s on the Sunday 
after my arrival, to meet some of the leading 
citizens in New York. At this dinner, in 
responding tp. the .toast of my health, I 
happened to refer to the Kinsmen of America 

Copyright, is*, by /ohrUJ^ERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



and England, and eight or ten members who 
belonged to the brother club instantly stood 
up in their places as if answering the roll- 
call — a silent act of camaraderie and kinship 
which made a profound impression upon me 
at the time. 

Among those present at the Irving dinner 
were Mr. Phelps (late Ambassador to Eng- 
land), General Horace Porter (afterwards 
United Stales Ambassador to France), 
Lawrence Hutton, Richard Harding Davis, 
Mr + Sm alley, Mr. Elderkin, and Mr. J. A, 
Mitchell (the Burnand of America). The 
evening was marked with the greatest cor- 
diality, and distinguished by many eloquent 
speeches typical of the American people; I 
sat between my host and General Porter, the 
latter being mo.^t enthusi- 
astic in his eulogy of the 
brotherly relations existing 
between England and the 
United States, 

I mention (his as I was 
much struck by the fact 
that during the subsequent 
week, when the bombshell 
of President Cleveland's 
Message with regard to the 
Monroe doctrine on the 
Venezuelan question fell 
upon the world, General 
Porter was one of the most 
fiery antagonists of England 
and appeared to have en- 
tirely reversed his opinion 
as to the importance of 
"letting brotherly love 

I shall not readily forget that memorable 
week* Irving was to make his final appear- 
ance in New* York, at the Knickerbocker 
Theatre, on the Saturday night, and I was 
to follow him at the same theatre on the 
Monday. On the preceding Tuesday, two 
days after our dinner, the President's 
Message appeared, A state of panic prevailed 
in New York, and spread also, I believe, to 
England, for the horizon was dark with war 
clouds. Irving and 1 felt so sure thnt war 
was imminent that we actually discussed the 
probability of our having to leave the United 
States before its declaration. The attitude, 
however, of the Americans to individual 
English men j although the Yellow Press was 
teeming with abuse of our country, was most 
kind and sympathetic. This revealed to 
me a trait in the American character which 
inspired me with the greatest admiration. 

It is quite impossible to describe the state 

Vol. xxxvL — 40- 


of feverish excitement which prevailed in New 
York during that eventful week. The sensa- 
tional papers endeavoured to incite rather 
than allay the bellicose feelings of the people. 
A nti- British speeches were made in every 
direction, and in the excited condition of the 
community I dreaded the scene that might 
occur on the occasion of Irving's last appear- 
ance, which was to take place on the Saturday 
night of that week* 

I was, of course, present. Irving played 
" Waterloo/' and the usual English patriotic 
airs identified with that little masterpiece 
were performed during the evening. I 
was quite prepared to see the audience rise 
en masse and tear the seats from their 
surroundings. But, no! The innate courtesy 
of the nation and the 
respect invariably extended 
to our greatest English 
actor reigned supreme, and 
they received Irving with 
the same enthusiasm as 
when the sky was clear and 

I could not help reflect- 
ing on this, and wondering 
what sort of reception an 
Englishman would have 
received under similar cir- 
cumstances in certain coun- 
tries nearer home. Indeed, 
good taste and courtesy 
siein to be characteristic 
qualities of the American 
people, as is also in a 
marked degree their extra- 
ordinary sang-froid. 
While on the subject of American good 
manners, I must remark here how much 
impressed I was by their attitude of respect 
towards women, which is one of exceptional 
and pleasing courtesy* 

To return to rny more personal experi- 
ences, immediately after the Presidential 
Message was hurled like a thunderbolt from 
the White House, Irving sent me an invita- 
tion to dine at the anniversary dinner of the 
Cloister Club, whose president had asked 
him to convey the invitation to me, though 
I was personally unknown to its members. 
Irving, being himself unable to go, strongly 
advised my attendance as a politic and 
diplomatic step, and accordingly — while not 
unnaturally a little fearful — I went, It 
was at this dinner that I had the honour 
of meeting. President Roosevelt, then Chief 
Commissioner uflWffitHie in New York, who 
was U Miy Efffe^'lfvOiiMC H \&P, hJthat occasion. 



A party of over a hundred sat down to 
dinner. The chairman, in welcoming me as 
an Englishman, forbade that politics should 
be alluded to, and made a most graceful and 
charming speech. In replying, I said that, 
owing to the kindness of everyone, I had 
never felt myself a stranger from the day 
of landing ; but " amongst kinsmen and 
brothers. God forbid," I added, "that we 
children of the same mother should ever 
cease to regard each other as kinsmen and 
brothers." This remark was received with 
the utmost enthusiasm, and at the conclusion 
of my little speech the whole assembly rose 
and sang " God save the Queen " ! My 
emotion may be imagined at hearing the 
National Anthem sung at such a crisis — in 
fact, on the very day that the papers were 
teeming with war. It was a splendid and 
great-hearted thing to have done, and in 
keeping with the attitude I experienced 

I cannot, however, forget that the evening 
did not terminate without the occurrence of 
another exciting incident, and one not so 
pleasant. At the end of the proceedings, 
when the chairman had vacated his seat, Mr. 
Roosevelt also left the table, and I could see 
him through the open door being helped into 
his great -coat prior to his departure. At 
this moment up rose a well-known American 
orator (Mr. Wise, I believe), who ignored 
the chairman's directions that politics should 
not be discussed, owing to my presence as 
an English guest. He made a remarkable 
speech, in which he pointed out the crime of 
journalists who, with their irresponsible pens, 
stirred up the angry passions of war and 
bellicose feelings of mankind, instead of 
subduing them when their country was at a 
crisis. He proceeded to say that he himself, 
having fought in the Civil War, realized the 
horrors of the battlefield, and finished by 
declaring that " all that territory south of the 
Isthmus of Panama was not worth one drop 
of Anglo-Saxon blood " ! 

This oration caught the ear of Mr. Roose- 
velt, who in a towering passion tore off his 
overcoat, returned to his chair next to mine, 
and, having declared that the speaker had 
violated the rule laid down by the chairman, 
stated that he was no longer bound to con- 
form to it. He then proceeded to make a most 
impassioned patriotic speech, in the course of 
which he " thanked God that he had not a 
drop of Anglo-Saxon blood in his veins." Mr. 
Roosevelt, probably anticipating my emotions 
of dismay and discomfort, every now and 
again paused in his denunciations, bowing in 

an apologetic way to assure me that no per- 
sonal affront was intended. I need hardly 
say, however, that as the only Englishman 
present I felt extremely uncomfortable, and 
was very glad to make my exit 

Mr. Roosevelt has since shown, during his 
able and brilliantly diplomatic career as 
President of the United States, a policy of 
tolerance and good feeling towards this 
country which has clearly exhibited a better 
understanding and sympathy with Great 
Britain, and long since banished from my 
mind any unpleasant reminiscences of that 
eventful evening and my first meeting with 
that remarkable and powerful statesman. 

On a subsequent visit to the States I 
remember arriving at another exciting time. 
It was the week of the Presidential election, 
when McKinley and Bryan were struggling 
for leadership, and the issues at stake were 
enormous. The election of the former 
meant fortune to the great commercial mag- 
nates, to whom the success of the latter spelt 
ruin. I was invited to be present at one of 
the largest New York clubs to witness the 
announcement of the result of the ballot, as 
wired from the different States. Unlike our 
General Election for Parliamentary candi- 
dates, which extends over a fortnight, this 
momentous struggle for the Presidency 
(representing the votes of millions of people 
spread over a vast continent) takes place in 
one day, and the result is known simul- 
taneously in all the great cities of America. 

In the centre of the club- room was fixed a 
large blackboard, on which, by some system 
of electricity, the number of votes obtained 
by the Democratic or Republican candidate 
was exhibited. 

The room was full of millionaires, to many 
of whom the issue at stake meant financial 
life or death, and to all the result was one of 
immense importance. But a spirit of apathy 
seemed to hang over them. Perhaps it was 
that highest art which conceals art, and " Les 
Affaires sont les Affaires " might have been the 
title of the drama that was played that night. 
As result after result was recorded, the cool 
call of " Another cocktail, Charles ! " and 
silent expectoration were the only apparent 
evidences of emotion exhibited. It was 
strange to compare this apparently callous 
attitude with the enthusiastic demonstration 
of Englishmen on the success of the candi- 
date representing the party they favoured. 
Two days after the triumph of McKinley 
and the defeat of the silver issue, poor men 
became rich and rich men were Croesuses. 



which, had luck ever favoured my experience 
on the Stock Exchange, I might myself have 
emerged a semi millionaire. But, no; I 
seemed destined to remain an actor- 
manager ! 

To revert to my own professional career, I 
opened at the Knickerbocker Theatre, in 
New York, with "The Notorious Mrs, 
Ebhsmith," by Pmero, Miss Julia Neilson 
and Fred Terry taking the places of Mrs* 
Patrick Campbell and Forbes - Robertson, 
who had supported me in London. For 
some reason or other the play was not 
appreciated so much as it might have been 

Passing briefly on, the same generous 
recognition which had been shown to my 
work and the same social hospitality accom- 
panied me wherever we went- Friends greeted 
me in every city, and I was the recipient of 
innumerable marks of kindness which I can 
never forget It would be invidious for me 
to particularize, but I feel bound to record 
the lively feelings of gratitude inspired more 
especially by the City of Boston* To my 
mind this city contains the finest theatrical 
audience in the English-speaking world. 
Critical without being fr/asr, and enthusiastic 
but discriminating, it was a real delight to .CKI-k THRATRF. NEW VOkK, 

Ftvtu a l*hutopraph ",'-., tied b{t Q. G. BniK New Vwk. 

in New York. It ran for three weeks to 
gradually decreasing business, and, wishing 
to try my luck in another piay identified with 
my name, I proposed to my manager, Mr 
Abbey, that I should produce "A Pair of 
Spectacles" for my fourth and last week, 
He was very averse to this, as the play had 
been tried before, but without success. I, 
however, insisted, and after much difficulty 
surmounted his objections. 

It was an instantaneous success. The 
business grew by leaps and bounds, and we 
finished by playing to the utmost capacity of 
the theatre, 

ost capac 


appear before so cultured and appreciative an 

As an instance of the many kindnesses 
experienced in Boston, I might give one 
example. Of the many clubs of which I 
enjoyed the privilege of being an honorary 
member, the Union Club, modelled on 
Knglish lines^ was perhaps my particular 
favourite. In taking my dinner at the un- 
comfortable and inconvenient hour of four 
(my custom always of an afternoon) I was 
struck by the fact that my simple dinner was 
always exquisitely cooked. In remarking this 
to iR H | S ^.^ 1T?) ^ i t( ]ff: T W on was that the 



cAtfhad orders not to leave the club in order 
that he could minister to my comfort and 
convenience, I was anxious to make some 
return for this hospitality, and inquired how 
I might best reward the servants, It was 
strictly against the rules for anyone to receive 


From Stereonraph. Copvright, 'ws, b$ Uttdtrwwtd dt Undtnmctt 

a gratuity, but I was informed that "passes " 
to the theatre where 1 was playing would be 
very acceptable. There were seventy servants 
in the club, but they were 
told off* in detachments 
and seats allotted to 
them in order of their 
position. On the last 
evening of my engage- 
ment, on entering my 
dressing - room at the 
theatre on Saturday night, 
I found to my surprise a 
superb trophy of flowers, 
six feet in height, con- 
sisting chiefly of exotic 
flowers (carnations and 
roses) from Florida, for it 
was then midwinter and 
the ground was thick with 
snow. Thinking this 
tribute was intended for 
the ladies of the company, 
I told my dresser to take 
them from my room to 
theirs, but he informed 
me that a card was con- 
cealed within the garland, which was 
evidently meant for me. It was inscribed, 
"From the servants of the Union Club." 
I was naturally much touched by this. 


Copyright, *«w, bv Ityuittntajf, Pctpa. <£ C?o. 


Cuwrifjht. tw4 ¥ hv E. ChitkeritiQ. 

Every New Year's Day since I have 
received a cable of good wishes from the 
members of the Union Club, and, of course, 
have sent one in reply. 

Philadelphia, St. Louis, Chicago, and 

Washington were among the other cities 

visited, and, like everybody else visiting the 

latter city for the first time, I was struck by 

its uncommon beauty. 

On my first visit to 
Washington I had the 
honour of a personal in- 
terview with the late Pre- 
sident G rover Cleveland, 
I was greatly impressed 
by his obvious possession 
of exceptional physical 
and mental power, which 
was accentuated by his 
rough and rugged exterior. 
Whether it was the state 
of the country and the 
anti-British feeling prevail- 
ing at that time over the 
Venezuelan affair I do 
not know, but the appa 
rent lack of cordiality in 
his manner was unmis- 
takable, He certainly, in 
any event, evinced more 
interest in fishing and 
duck -shooting than the 
study of dramatic art. Nor did I blame him, 
being a bit of a sportsman myself) 

It was through my friend Judge Nelson 


3 1 ? 

man— that I had received an invitation to 
the Senate, and also the pleasure of being 
introduced to Mr. Speaker Reed — a dis- 
tinguished and very witty man, A well- 
known saying attributed to him is worth 
repeating. He once described a somewhat 
verbose and long- winded orator as being 
"an encyclopedia of undigested misinfor- 

Chicago was another city we had every 
reason to regard 
with feelings of 
particular grati- 
tude and affec- 
tion. Enthusi- 
astic audiences 
in the theatre, 
and hospitable 
kindness outside, 
greeted us every- 
where. There is 
a pronounced 
artistic tendency 
on the part of 
the people, and 
their love for the 
theatre is only 
surpassed by 
their fondness for 
music. The in- 
habitants of that 
great city main- 
tain, at very con- 
siderable cost, 
one of the finest 
orchestras in the 
world Chicago 
is a city of con- 
trasts. The law- 
lessness of some 
of the inhabit- 
ants, the love of 
art, the mixture 
of squalor and 
m agn ificence 
confront one on 
every side. It is 
safer to have a 
six - shooter in 
readiness when walking about Chicago at 
night. Human life seems to be regarded rather 
lightly, as may be gathered from the fact that 
in front of the hotel in which my company 
were residing a man was shot in broad day- 
light, but so little notice was taken of it that 
this insignificant occurrence was not even 
reported in the papers the next morning. 

Another trifling incident which is hardly 
worth repeating, but shows the way in which 

By pcrtJiixtioH of Tttt Century Company, /fin* Vork. 

liTe is apparently held in the Windy City, might 
also be recorded en passant In coming out 
of the stage door of the theatre one day, as 
usual I walked across the little street to join 
the carriage waiting for me. My son and 
manager were walking behind. I got into 
the brougham, thinking I was being followed 
by them, instead of which a very unpre- 
possessing - looking individual put his head 
through the window and, in a tone which 

evidently meant 
my money or my 
life, said t( Mr. 
Hare, I want to 
s[>eak to you for 
a moment !" Be- 
fore I could 
reply my mana- 
ger had caught 
him by the scruff 
of his neck and 
thrown him out 
of harm's reach. 
In relating the 
incident to a 
Chicago friend 
the next day, he 
amazed me by 
ejac ul a 1 1 n g, 
"Good God! 
you should have 
shot him ! " 

Here I must 
conclude my re- 
collections of 
America for the 
present, but I 
cannot take leave 
of that wonderful 
country without 
recording briefly 
my impressions 
of the state of 
their stage, the 
condition of their 
theatres, and the 
ability of their 
actors — impres- 
sions which were 
confirmed on a subsequent visit I made under 
the able and enterprising direction of Mr, 
Charles Frohman, whose attitude to me 
throughout was not so much that of a hard- 
headed impresario as that of a kind and 
considerate friend. In the first place, the 
chief American theatres are models of artistic 
design, convenience, and good taste, and are 
erected on important and dignified sites, 
The y^rp^pp|5^P^tf|r jfjy^ ffl^A FP^^^rt of the 



actors are almost ideal. Their stages are 
heated by hot- water coils, which are a boon 
to both actors and audience, enabling the 
former to pursue their duties in comfort 
and under healthy conditions, and protecting 
the audience from those biting blasts which 
are felt in many English theatres directly 
the curtain separating the audience from the 
stage is raised Indeed, everything con- 
nected with theatrical art in the United 
States points to a keen interest in it, and 
promises un- 
limited deve- 
lopment in the 
future on the 
Theatre 9 which 
in the time to 
come will place 
the American 
stage on a foot- 
ing with the 
best in I in rope. 

The Ameri- 
cans are an fond 
a theatre-loving 
people, perhaps 
still a little 
Puritanical, and 
though in some 
parts their taste 
may be primi- 
tive and simple, 
they have a 
great desire for 
the best that 
can be given 
them. Their 
stage suffers, 
like ours, from 
lack of concen- 
tration and 

cohesion, and the actors want proper train- 
ing. They also suffer from the pernicious 
system of every promising young actor being 
converted into a a star" — making a man a 
general before he knows his goose step. 

But there is a mass of ability on the Ame- 
rican stage, if sometimes in an immature form. 
Their actresses as a whole, if not always 
individually, surpass our own in style, distinc- 
tion, temperament, and ability. They have 
many excellent character- actors and not a few 
f turns premiers with engaging personalities 
and winning methods. Among their great 
actors who have passed away might be men- 

thk lA-tfcsr i'HtnckikAPH »F Bis John hakjl — with ins (jhaSpdau^iiti- r, 
Fruma Photo] DIANA hanCkOKT, ibv Histed, 


tioned Booth, Warren, Gilbert, Wallack, and 
Forrest, and in recent times Mansfield and 
Jefferson — the former a tragic actor of great 
power and versatility* and the latter, to my 
mind, the finest comedian in the English- 
speaking language, if not, indeed, in the 
world, His incomparable Rip Van Winkle 
will live for ever in the memory of those who 
had the good fortune to witness it, and his 
Bob Acres was a thing of joy, I remember 
witnessing his performance of that part in 

company with 
Irving, who 
asserted that it 
was the most 
perfect piece of 
comedy acting 
and the finest 
realization of 
the character 
he had ever 
seen. Another 
refutation of the 
strange state- 
ment that 
Irving could 
not appreciate 
another s art ! 

I must now 
bring these ran- 
dom recollec- 
tions to a close 
at present, 
though further 
faci 1 i t ies of 
leisure may 
lend opportuni- 
ties for the con- 
tinuation and 
extension of 
what has proved 
a pleasurable 
and entertain- 
ing task on my memory. For as one grows 
older the pleasures of anticipation fade before 
the joys of remembrance and reflection. 

I prefaced these reminiscences by telling 
my readers that my career had happily run 
smoothly and comparatively uneventfully. 
No stirring episodes and thrilling dangers 
have disturbed the even tenor of my way* 
All I can hope is that a few of the anecdotes 
and obiter dicta of the distinguished men with 
whom I have been brought into contact may 
have interested those friends who have fol- 
lowed my career so y Jlf* 
long and so kindly- ^^-^p^K^^^t--^ 







OAN HARTLEY did not 
reali/c the full consequences 
of her departure from the truth 
umil the actual arrival of the 
Trimbklt family, which, piloted 
by Mr. Hartley, made a trium- 
phant appearance in a couple of station cabs. 
The roofs were piled high with luggage, the 
leading cabman sharing his seat with a brass- 
bound trunk of huge dimensions and ex- 
tremely sharp corners. 

A short, sturdy girl of seventeen jumped 
out as soon as the vehicles came to a halt, 
and, taking her stand on the kerb, proceeded 
to superintend the unloading. A succession 
of hasty directions to the leading cabman, 
one of the most docile of men, ended in 
the performance of a marvellous piece of 
jugglery with the big trunk, which he first 
balanced for an infinitesimal period of time 

Copyright, iooS, by W. W, Jacobs, 

on his nose, and then caught with his 
big toe. 

" What did you do that for ? " demanded 
Miss Trimblett, hotly. 

There is a limit to the patience of every 
man, and the cabman was proceeding to tell 
her when he was checked by Mr. Hartley, 

" He ought to be locked up," said Miss 
Trimblett, flushing. 

She took up a band-box and joined the 
laden procession of boys and girls that was 
proceeding up the path to the house* Still 
red with indignation she was introduced to 
Joan, and, putting down the band box, stood 
eyeing her with frank curiosity* 

"I thought you were older," she said at 
last. "I had no idea father was married 
again until I got the letter. I shall call you 

" You had all belter call me that," said. 



"Never more surprised in my life," con- 
tinued Miss Trimblett. " However " 

She paused and looked about her. 

" This is George," she said, pulling forward 
a heavy-looking youth of sixteen. " This is 
Ted; he is fourteen — small for his age— and 
these are the twins, Dolly and Gertrude; 
they're eleven. Dolly has got red hair and 
Gerty has got the sweetest temper." 

The family, having been introduced and 
then summarily dismissed by the arbitrary 
Jessie, set out on a tour of inspection, while 
the elders, proceeding upstairs, set themselves 
to solve a problem in sleeping accommoda- 
tion that would have daunted the proprietor 
of a Margate lodging-house. A scheme was 
at last arranged by which Hartley gave up his 
bedroom to the three Misses Trimblett and 
retired to a tiny room under the tiles. Miss 
Trimblett pointed out that it commanded a 
fine view. 

" It is the only thing to be done," said 
Joan, softly. 

" It isn't very big for three," said Miss 
Trimblett, referring to her own room, " but 
the twins won't be separated. I've always 
been used to a room to myself, but I suppose 
it can't be helped for the present." 

She went downstairs and walked into the 
garden. The other members of the family 
were already there, and Hartley, watching 
them from the dining-room window, raised 
his brows in anguish as he noticed the par- 
tiality of the twins for cut flowers. 

It was, as he soon discovered, one of the 
smallest of the troubles that followed on his 
sudden increase of family. His taste in 
easy-chairs met with the warm approval of 
George Trimblett, and it was clear that the 
latter regarded the tobacco-jar as a sort of 
widow's cruse. The twins' belongings — a 
joint-stock affair — occupied the most unlikely 
places in the house ; and their quarrels were 
only exceeded in offensiveness by their 
noisy and uncouth endearments afterwards. 
Painstaking but hopeless attempts on the 
part of Miss Trimblett to "teach Rosa her 
place " added to the general confusion. 

By the end of a month the Trimblett 
children were in full possession. George 
Trimblett, owing to the good offices of Mr. 
Vyner, senior, had obtained a berth in a 
shipping firm, but the others spent the days 
at home, the parties most concerned being 
unanimously of the opinion that it would be 
absurd to go to school before Christmas. 
They spoke with great fluency and good 
feeling of making a fresh start in the New 

" Interesting children," said Robert Vyner, 
who had dropped in one afternoon on the 
pretext of seeing how they were getting on. 
"I wish they were mine. I should be so 
proud of them." 

Miss Hartley, who was about to offer him 
some tea, thought better of it, and, leaning 
back in her chair, regarded him suspiciously. 

"And, after all, what is a garden for?" 
pursued Mr. Vyner, as a steady succession of 
thuds sounded outside, and Ted, hotly pur- 
sued by the twins, appeared abruptly in the 
front garden and dribbled a football across 
the flower-beds. 

"They are spoiling the garden," said Joan, 
flushing. " Father is in despair." 

Mr. Vyner shook his head indulgently. 
" Girls will be girls," he said, glancing through 
the window at Gertrude, who had thrown 
herself on the ball and was being dragged 
round the garden by her heels. " I'm afraid 
you spoil them, though." 

Miss Hartley did not trouble to reply. 

"I saw your eldest boy yesterday, at 
Marling's," continued the industrious Mr. 
Vyner. " He is getting on pretty well ; 
Marling tells me he is steady and quiet. I 
should think that he might be a great 
comfort to you in your old age." 

In spite of the utmost efforts to prevent it, 
Miss Hartley began to laugh. Mr. Vyner 
regarded her in pained astonishment. 

"I didn't intend to be humorous," he 
said, with some severity. "I am fond of 
children, and, unfortunately, I— I am child- 

He buried his face in his handkerchief, 
and, removing it after a decent interval, 
found that his indignant hostess was prepar- 
ing to quit the room. 

" Don't go," he said, hastily. " I haven't 
finished yet." 

" I haven't got time to stay and talk non- 
sense," said Joan. 

" I'm not going to," said Robert, " but I 
want to speak to you. I have a confession 
to make." 


Mr. Vyner nodded with sad acquiescence. 
" I deceived you grossly the other day," he 
said, "and it has been worrying me ever 

" It doesn't matter," said Joan, with a 
lively suspicion of his meaning. 

" Pardon me," said Mr. Vyner, with solemn 
politeness, " if I say that it does. I- I lied 
to you, and I have been miserable ever 

Joan waited in indignant; silence. 



'**don*t go, 1 he said, hastily, "J haven't FIN| - ■ d E- r 1 tet,' " 

" I told you that I was married/' said Mr. 
Vyner, in thrilling tones, " I am not." 

Miss Hartley, who had seated herself, rose 
suddenly with a fair show of temper, 

u You said you were not going to talk 
nonsense! 51 she exclaimed, 

11 1 am not," said the other, in surprise, 
"I am owning to a fault, making a clean 
breast of my sins, not without a faint hope 
That I am setting an example that will be 
beautifully and Ixmntifully followed/' 

" I have really got too much to do to stay 
here listening to nonsense," said Miss Hartley, 

" I am a proud man/ 7 resumed Mr, Vyner, 
11 and what it has cost me to make this con- 
fession tongue cannot tell ; but it is made, 
and I now, in perfect confidence— almost 
perfect confidence — await yours." 

"I don't understand you," said Joan, 
pausing, with her hand on the door. 

" Having repudiated my dear wife/' said 
Mr. Vyner, sternly? " I now ask, nay, demand, 
that you repudiate Captain Trimblett — and 
all his works," he added, as ear-splitting 

VoU xjHvi, — 41. 

screams sounded 
from outside, 

"I wish— 1 ' 
began Joan, in a 
low voice. 

"Yes?" said 
Robert, tenderly. 
" That you 
would go." 

M r . Vyner 
started, and half 
rose to his feet 
Then he thought 
better of it 

" I thought at 
first that you 
meant it," he said, 
with a slight 

44 I do mean 
it," said Joan, 
breathing quickly, 
Robert rose at 
once, "I am 
very sorry," he 
said, w T ith grave 
concern, " I did 
not think that 
you were taking 
my foolishness 
seriously, 5 ' 

t( I ought to 
be amused, I 
know," said 
Joan, bitterly, "I ought to be humbly 
grateful to your father for having those 
children sent here. I ought to be flattered 
to ihink that he should remember my 
existence and make plans for my future/' 

" He — he himself believes that you are 

married to Captain Trimblett," said Robert. 

"Fortunately for us," said Joan, dryly* 

"Do you mean," said Robert, regarding 

her fixedly, "that my father arranged that 

marriage ? " 

Joan bit her lip. " No, J she said at 

41 He had something to do with it,* 1 per- 
sisted Robert. li What was it ? " 
Joan shook her head* 
"Well, I'll ask him about it," said Mr. 

"Please don J t s " said the girt 

"You have said so much," said Robert, 
"that you had better say more. That's what 
comes of losing your temper. Sit down and 
tell me all about it, please." 
loan shook her head again. 


" It is my 



"You are not angry vrith me? "said Mr. 

" No." 

"That's all right, then," said Robert, cheer- 
fully. " That encourages me to go to still 
further lengths. You've got to tell me all 
about it I forgot to tell you, but I'm a real 
partner in the firm now. I've got a hard 
and fast share in % the profits — had it last 
Wednesday ; since when I have already 
grown two inches. In exchange for this 
confidence I await yours. You must speak a 
little louder if you want me to hear." 

" I didn't say anything," said the girl 

" You are wasting time, then," said Robert, 
shaking his head. " And that eldest girl of 
yours may come in at any moment." 

Despite her utmost efforts Miss Hartley 
Jailed to repress a smile ; greatly encouraged, 
Mr. Vyner placed a chair for her and took 
one by her side. 

" Tell me everything, and I shall know 
where we are," he said, in a low voice. 

"I would rather " began Miss Hartley. 

" Yes, I know," interrupted Mr. Vyner, 
with great gravity ; " but we were not put 
into this world to please ourselves. Try again." 

Miss Hartley endeavoured to turn the con- 
versation, but in vain. In less than ten 
minutes, with a little skilful prompting, she 
had told him all. 

" I didn't think that it was quite so bad as 
that," said Robert, going very red. " I am 
very sorry — very. I can't think what my 
father was about, and I suppose, in the first 
place, that it was my fault." 

" Yours ? " exclaimed Joan. 

" For not displaying more patience," said 
Robert, slowly. "But I was afraid of — of 
being forestalled." 

Miss Hartley succeeded in divesting her 
face of every atom of expression. Robert 
Vyner gazed at her admiringly. 

" I am glad that you understand me," he 
murmured. " It makes things easier for me. 
I don't suppose that you have the faintest 
idea how shy and sensitive I really am." 

Miss Hartley, without even troubling to 
look at him, said that she was quite sure she 
had not. 

"Nobody has," said Robert, shaking his 
head, "but I am going to make a fight 
against it. I am going to begin now. In 
the fifst place I want you not to think too 
hardly of my father. He has been a very 
good father to me. We have never had a 
really hasty word in our lives." 

" I hope you never will have," said Joan, 
with some significance. 

" I hope not," said Robert ; " but in any 
case I want to tell you " 

Miss Hartley snatched away the hand he 
had taken, and with a hasty glance at the 
door retreated a pace or two from him. 

" What is the matter ? " he inquired, in a 
low voice. 

Miss Hartley's eyes sparkled. 

" My eldest daughter has just come in," 
she said, demurely. " I think you had 
better go." 

Mrs. Chinnery received the news of her 
brother's marriage with a calmness that 
was a source of considerable disappoint- 
ment and annoyance to her friends and 
neighbours. To begin with, nobody knew 
how it had reached her, and several worthy 
souls who had hastened to her, hot-foot, with 
what they had fondly deemed to be exclusive 
information had some difficulty in repressing 
theif annoyance. Their astonishment was 
increased a week later on learning that she 
had taken a year's lease of No. 9, Tranquil 
Vale, which had just become vacant, and 
several men had to lie awake half the 
night listening to conjectures as to where she 
had got the money. 

Most of the furniture at No. 5 was her 
own, and she moved it in piecemeal. 
Captain Sellers, who had his own ideas as 
to why she was coming to live next door 
to him, volunteered to assist, and, being 
debarred by deafness from learning that his 
services were refused, caused intense excite- 
ment by getting wedged under a dressing- 
table on the stairs. To inquiries as to how 
he got there, the captain gave but brief 
replies, and those of an extremely sailorly 
description, the whole of his really remarkable 
powers being devoted for the time being to 
the question of how he was to get out. He 
was released at length by a man and a saw, 
and Mrs. Chinnery, as soon as she could 
speak, gave him a pressing invitation to take 
home with him any particular piece of the 
table for which he might have a fancy. 

He was back next morning with a glue-pot, 
and divided his time between boiling it up 
on the kitchen stove and wandering about 
the house in search of things to stick. Its 
unaccountable disappearance during his 
absence in another room did much to mar 
the harmony of an otherwise perfect day. 
First of all he searched the house from top 
to bottom ; then, screwing up his features, he 
beckoned quietly to Mrs. Chinnery. 

"I hadn't leit it ten seconds," he said. 





mysteriously. "I went into the front room 
for a bit of slick, and when I went back it 
had gone — vanished, I was never more 
surprised in my life," 

"Don't bother me," said Mrs. Chinnery, 
41 I've got enough to do." 


Mrs. Chinnery, who was hot and flustered, 
shook her head at him, 

* l It's a very odd thing," said Captain 
Sellers, shaking his head. (l I never lost a 

glue pot before in 
my 1 i fe — - never. 

Do you know 
anything about 
that charwoman 
that's helping 
you ? " 

"Ves, of 
course, 35 said Mrs. 

The captain put 
his hand to his 

" Y E S , OF 


"1 don't like 
her expression/' 
said Captain 
Sellers, firmly. 
" I'm a very good 
judge of faces, 
and there's a look, 
an artful look, 
about her eyes 
that I don't like* 
It's my belief 
she's got my glue 
pot stowed about 
her somewhere ; 
and I'm going to 
search her." 

11 You get out 
of my houses" 
cried the over. 
wrought Mrs. 

"Not without 
my, glue pot, J said 
Captain Sellers, 
hearing for once. 
14 Take that 
woman upstairs 
and search her 
A glue pot— a hot 
glue pot — can't go 
without hands," 

trail in body 
but indomitable 
in spirit he confronted the accused, who, 
having overheard his remarks, came in and 
shook her fist in his face and threatened him 
with the terrors of the law 

" A glue-pot can't go without hands," he 
said, obstinately. " If you had asked me for 
a little you could have had it, and welcome ; 
but you had no business to take it." 

"Take itf" vociferated the accused. 
il What good do you think it would be 

to mfrEfeh%^^^ ndren and tw0 

3 2 4 


husbands, and I've never been accused of 
stealing a glue-pot before. Where do you 
think I could put it ? " 

" I don't know," said the captain, as soon 
as he understood. " That's what I'm curious 
about. You go upstairs with Mrs. Chinnery, 
and if she don't find that you've got that 
glue-pot concealed on you I shall be very 
much surprised. Why not own up the truth 
before you scald yourself? " 

Instead of going upstairs the charwoman 
went to the back door and sat on the step to 
get her breath, and, giving way to a sense of 
humour which had survived the two hus- 
bands and eleven children, wound up with a 
strong fit of hysterics. Captain Sellers, who 
watched through the window as she was 
being taken away, said that perhaps it was 
his fault for putting temptation in her way. 

Mrs. Chinnery tried to keep her door fast 
next morning, but it was of no use. The 
captain was in and out all day, and, having 
found a tin of green paint and a brush 
among his stores, required constant watching. 
The day after Mrs. Chinnery saw her only 
means of escape, and at nine o'clock in the 
morning, with fair words and kind smiles, 
sent him into Salthaven for some picture- 
cord. He made f